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THE  LIBRARY 

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OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 


BY    ARNOLD    BENNETT 


Noveh 

THE  OLD  WIVES'  TALE 

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THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

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WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

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-«-'■''»''■■■     '^  ' 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK 


WHOM    GOD 
HATH   JOINED 


BY 

ARNOLD   BENNETT 

AUTHOR    OF    "THE    OLD    WIVES*    TALE,- 
"BURIED   ALIVE."  ETC. 


GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK. 


3^J 


TO 
ROY  DEVEREUX. 


611584 

ENQJSH 


CONTENTS. 

CHAP  PAGE 

I  On  the  Hill 3 

II  Rogues'  Alley 49 

III  Annunciata 106 

IV  Mother  and  Daughter  -        -        -        -  141 
V  Afternoon  and  Night      ...        -  161 

VI  Renee 192 

VII  Phyllis 239 

VIII  Death 265 

IX  Matrimonial  Division      .        -        -        .  285 

X  On  the  Leas 339 

XI  A  Public  Appearance       -        .        .        .  363 

XII  The  Solution 393 


WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 


WHOM   GOD   HATH   JOINED 

CHAPTER  I 

ON   THE    HILL 

WHEN  I  was  young  the  road  leading  out 
of  the  heart  of  the  Five  Towns  up  to 
Toft  End  was  nothing  to  me  save  a  steep 
path  toward  fresh  air  and  far  horizons;  but  now  that 
I  have  lived  a  little  it  seems  the  very  avenue  to  a 
loving  comprehension  of  human  nature,  and  I 
climb  it  with  a  strange,  overpowering,  mystical 
sense  of  the  wonder  of  existence. 

Bleakridge,  a  suburb  of  Bursley,  oldest  of  the  Five 
Towns,  lies  conspicuously  on  a  hill  between  Bursley 
and  Hanbridge;  but  Toft  End,  which  may  be  called 
a  suburb  of  Bleakridge,  overtops  Bleakridge  itself 
by  hundreds  of  feet.  Immediately  you  have  crossed 
the  railway,  the  street,  with  its  narrow  brick  pave- 
ment and  cottage-rows  on  one  side,  and  smoke- 
discoloured  meadows  on  the  other,  begins  to  rise 
abruptly,  and  you  feel  that  you  are  leaving  things 
behind,  quitting  the  world  below,  and  gaining  a 
truer  perspective.     You  feel,  too,  that  you  are  en- 

3 


4  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

tering  a  mountain  village,  where  primitive  manners 
have  survived.  There  are  small  potbanks  in  Toft 
End  into  which  machinery  has  never  penetrated; 
the  shafts  of  the  coal  mines  look  as  simple  as  wells; 
and  there  even  remain,  in  a  condition  of  habitable 
decay,  a  few  of  those  Georgian  mansions  which 
earthenware  manufacturers  built  for  themselves 
a  century  ago  and  which  in  other  parts  of  the  Five 
Towns  have  either  disappeared  or  been  transformed 
into  offices  and  warehouses.  The  women  at  the 
doors  of  the  serried  narrow  cottages,  each  one  of 
which  is  a  little  higher  than  its  neighbour,  stare 
at  you  for  a  stranger  and  ask  why  you  walk  so  slowly 
and  why  you  gaze  so  long  at  the  glimpses  of  Bursley 
on  the  north  and  Hanbridge  on  the  south  —  those 
cities  of  the  murky  plain  mapping  themselves  out 
beneath.  And  suddenly  you  come  plump  into  a 
new  board  school,  planned  with  magnificent  modern 
disregard  of  space,  and  all  red  with  terra  cotta  and 
roof-tiles;  plants  bloom  in  its  windows,  for  the  powers 
down  at  Bursley  have  decreed  that  the  eyes  of  the 
children  shall  rest  on  beauty;  you  reflect  that  once 
the  children  were  whipped  from  their  beds  at  three 
in  the  morning  to  work  till  eight  at  night,  and  you 
would  become  sentimental  over  those  flowers  did 
you  not  remember  that  all  states  of  progress  are 
equally  worthy,  and  that  a  terra  cotta  board  school 
is   not  a  final   expression  of  the  eternal  purpose, 


ON  THE   HILL  5 

though  at  a  distance  It  may  resemble  one.  Close 
by  is  a  cramped  and  tiny  building  of  aged  brown 
brick,  with  no  asphalt  yard  and  no  system  of 
ventilation  and  no  wide  windows  and  no  blossoms: 
a  deplorable  erection,  surely!  Carved  over  its 
modest  stone  portal,  in  old-fashioned  lettering,  is 
the  legend  "Sunday  School  1806."  Oh  wistful, 
unhealthy  little  temple  of  a  shaken  creed,  fruit  of 
heaven  knows  what  tremendous  effort  up  there  in 
that  village,  the  terra  cotta  board  school  is  not 
greater  than  thou,  and  it  shall  not  be  more  honoured! 
And  so  you  pass  onward,  higher  and  higher,  by 
cottages  new  and  old,  by  an  odd  piece  of  a  farmstead 
with  authentic  ducks  on  its  pond,  by  the  ancient 
highway  from  Hanbrldge  to  Moorthorne,  by  a  new 
terrace  of  small  villas  with  a  sticky  grocer's  shop 
for  the  sale  of  soap  and  perhaps  stamps,  by  Non- 
conformist chapels  but  not  by  a  church,  until  you 
arrive  at  the  Foaming  Quart  Inn,  which  is  the 
highest  licensed  house  in  the  Five  Towns.  A  couple 
of  hundred  yards  more,  and  you  are  at  the  summit, 
in  the  centre  of  a  triangular  country  which  on 
geological  maps  is  coloured  black  to  indicate  coal. 
Turn  then  and  look.  To  the  east  is  the  wild  gray- 
green  moorland  dotted  with  mining  villages  whose 
steeples  are  wreathed  in  smoke  and  fire.  West 
and  north  and  south  are  the  Five  Towns  —  Bursley 
and   Turnhlll    to   the    north  —  Hanbridge,    Knype 


6  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

and  distant  Longshaw  to  the  south  —  Hanbrldge 
and  Bursley  uniting  their  arms  in  the  west.  Here 
they  have  breathed  for  a  thousand  years;  and  here 
to-day  they  pant  in  the  fever  of  a  quickened  evolu- 
tion, with  all  their  vast  apparatus  of  mayors  and 
aldermen  and  chains  of  office,  their  gas  and  their 
electricity,  their  swift  transport,  their  daily  paper, 
their  religions,  their  fierce  pleasures,  their  vices, 
their  passionate  sports,  and  their  secret  ideals! 
Bursley  Town  Hall  is  lighting  its  clock  —  the  gold 
angel  over  it  is  no  longer  visible  —  and  the  clock  of 
Hanbridge  Old  Church  answers;  far  off  the  blue  arc 
lamps  of  Knype  shunting-yard  flicker  into  being; 
all  round  the  horizon,  and  in  the  deepest  valley  at 
Cauldon,  the  yellow  fires  of  furnaces  grow  brighter 
in  the  first  oncoming  of  the  dusk.  The  immense 
congeries  of  streets  and  squares,  of  little  houses 
and  great  halls  and  manufactories,  of  church  spires 
and  proud  smoking  chimneys  and  chapel  towers, 
mingle  together  into  one  wondrous  organism  that 
stretches  and  rolls  unevenly  away  for  miles  in  the 
grimy  mists  of  its  own  endless  panting.  Railway 
stations,  institutes,  temples,  colleges,  grave-yards, 
parks,  baths,  workshops,  theatres,  concerts,  cafeSy 
pawnshops,  emporiums,  private  bars,  unmentioned 
haunts,  courts  of  justice,  banks,  clubs,  libraries, 
thrift  societies,  auction-rooms,  telephone  exchanges 
post-offices,  marriage  registries,  municipal  buildings 


ON  THE  HILL  7 

—  what  are  they,  as  they  undulate  below  you  in 
their  complex  unity,  but  the  natural,  beautiful, 
inevitable  manifestation  of  the  indestructible  Force 
that  is  within  you?  If  this  prospect  is  not  beautiful 
under  the  high  and  darkened  sky,  then  flowers  are 
not  beautiful,  nor  the  ways  of  animals!  If  anything 
that  happens  in  this  arena  of  activity  seems  to  you 
to  need  apologizing  for,  or  slurring  over,  or  conceal- 
ment, then  you  have  climbed  to  the  top  of  Toft 
End  in  vain! 

In  such  a  spirit  I  commence  the  history  of  certain 
human  beings,  including  a  man  named  Lawrence 
Ridware,  at  the  point  where  Lawrence  Ridware 
was  riding  a  bicycle,  with  infinite  eflFort  and  very 
little  speed,  up  the  steep  slopes  from  Bleakridge 
to  the  summit  of  the  Five  Towns.  But  in  what 
spirit  I  shall  make  an  end  of  the  history  I  cannot  say. 

Lawrence  Ridware  had  reached  the  age  of  thirty- 
eight;  nowadays  however,  we  have  formed  the  habit 
of  looking  younger  than  our  years,  and  Lawrence 
might  have  passed  for  thirty-two  or  so,  except  under 
the  scrutiny  of  an  expert  observer  who  had  learnt 
to  judge  age  by  the  sure  signs  of  the  eyes'  gaze  and 
the  limbs'  gestures.  He  was  an  "admitted"  clerk 
in  a  solicitors'  office.  That  is  to  say,  he  had  ac- 
quired the  right  to  practise  for  himself  as  a  solicitor, 
but  he  did  not  practise  for  himself.  Having  spent 
five  years  of  his  life  and  some  hundreds  of  pounds 


8  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

in  an  unrcmunerative  apprenticeship,  and  having 
gone  successfully  through  the  ordeal  of  three  exam- 
inations, he  now,  at  nearly  forty,  earned  three  pounds 
a  week  —  a  salary  quite  exceptionally  high  and  due 
to  quite  exceptional  circumstances.  Some  years 
before  he  had  been  earning  only  two  pounds  a  week 
for  the  same  work  from  the  same  employer,  Mr. 
Charles  Fearns,  commonly  called  Charlie  Fearns, 
of  Hanbridge.  Fearns  had  taken  a  young  partner, 
and,  having  no  further  use  for  Ridware,  had  char- 
acteristically found  another  and  a  better  place  for 
him,  in  the  office  of  his  half-brother,  a  writer  to  the 
signet  in  Glasgow,  who  wanted  a  sound  general 
knowledge  of  English  law  in  his  establishment. 
Lawrence  had  thereupon  definitely  fixed  himself 
and  his  wife  in  Glasgow.  Then  the  young  partner 
of  Fearns  had  died  with  dramatic  suddenness,  and 
Fearns,  characteristically  once  more,  had  demanded 
his  old  clerk  from  his  half-brother  by  telegraph, 
and  had  got  him,  at  any  rate  for  the  time  being,  on 
condition  of  a  further  increase  in  salary.  Hence 
the  three  pounds  per  week.  As  Ridware  had  a 
private  income  of  a  hundred  a  year,  he  might  con- 
sider himself,  in  the  ranks  of  provincial  admitted 
clerks,  a  rich  man.  But  he  held  no  ardent  interest 
in  money,  and  he  had  allowed  the  half-brothers  to 
despatch  him  to  and  fro  like  a  parcel. 

He  was  a  thin  man,  fairly  tall,  with  very  thin  arms 


ON  THE  HILL  9 

and  legs,  black  hair  and  moustache,  and  rather  large 
black  eyes.  His  pallid  face  was  thin,  but  the 
nostrils  were  remarkably  broad,  and  so  was  the 
forehead,  a  forehead  bossy  above  the  eyes.  From 
the  forehead  downward  the  face  narrowed  quickly 
till  it  came  to  a  geometrical  point  at  the  extremity 
of  the  chin,  which  was  sharp  to  an  extraordinary 
degree  and  which  protruded.  If  any  reliance  could 
be  placed  on  chins  and  foreheads,  Lawrence  Rid- 
ware  was  such  a  person  as  makes  his  way  in  the  world 
against  incredible  difficulties,  and  is  induced  after- 
ward to  write  articles  in  magazines  for  young 
men  entitled  "How  I  cleared  my  first  hundred 
pounds"  or  "How  I  hit  on  my  first  discovery." 
Chins  and  foreheads,  however,  are  sadly  unreliable. 

He  had  beautiful,  melancholy,  contemplative 
eyes,  whose  lids  seemed  always  a  little  anxious  to 
close.  His  lids  were  thin  and  not  very  red,  while 
his  hands,  strange  to  say,  were  of  a  full  habit  and 
reddish.  He  was  neatly  dressed:  a  very  dark  gray 
suit,  black  bowler  hat,  turned-down  collar,  and 
small  olive-coloured  tie.  Women  as  a  sex  liked 
him,  with  a  touch  of  disdain. 

Such  was  Lawrence  Ridware,  a  being  wholly  un- 
suited,  by  temperament  and  habits,  to  the  exercise 
of  riding  a  bicycle  violently  up  Toft  End  "bank" 
(hill),  with  empty  stomach,  on  a  warm  evening  in 
May.     He  did  it  badly  —  he  was  working  as  much 


lo  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

with  his  mobile  lips  as  with  his  legs  —  but  he  did 
It.  As  he  approached  the  Foaming  Quart  he  saw 
a  man  strolling  upward  In  front  of  him,  and  he 
shouted  In  an  agonized  voice: 

"Mark!" 

But  the  man  did  not  hear,  and  Lawrence  set  his 
lips  tighter,  and  frowned  more  fearfully,  and  bent 
lower  over  the  handle-bars,  and  forced  the  pace  of 
the  machine  until  he  had  lessened  his  distance  from 
the  man,  and  then  he  called  louder: 

"I  say,  Mark!" 

The  man,  who  by  this  time  was  within  a  few  yards 
of  Lawrence's  temporary  residence,  a  small  old- 
fashioned  detached  house  nearly  on  the  very 
pinnacle  of  Toft  End,  heard  and  stopped.  Law- 
rence also  stopped;  indeed  he  fell  off  the  bicycle. 

** Steady  on!"  the  other  admonished  him.  "I 
expected  you  at  Knype, "  he  added. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  answered  Lawrence,  quite  out 
of  breath.  "But  I  couldn't  get  there.  I  was  kept 
at  the  office!" 

And,  Lawrence  having  righted  the  bicycle,  the 
brothers  shook  hands,  each  nervous. 

Mark  Ridware,  though  three  years  younger  than 
Lawrence,  looked  older.  He  was  taller  and  stouter; 
his  face  was  larger  and  fuller,  and  he  wore  a  closely 
trimmed  black  beard.  Mark  had  gone  to  London 
at  a  susceptible  age,  the  winner  of  a  National  Schol- 


ON  THE  HILL  ii 

arship  at  what  is  now  called  the  Royal  College  of 
Art,  South  Kensington.  He  had  succeeded.  His 
bearing  had  the  touch  of  good-humoured  arrogance 
which  success  so  often  gives.  His  arrivals  in  and  his 
departures  from  the  Five  Towns  were  recorded  in 
the  Staffordshire  Signal.  His  clothes  were  far 
better  cut  than  Lawrence's,  and  his  collar  was  the 
antithesis  of  Lawrence's  collar.  In  brief,  he  was  a 
credit  to  the  district,  beamed  on  by  the  portly  friends 
of  his  late  father  when  he  met  them  in  the  street, 
and  a  tremendous  favourite  with  women,  some  of 
whom  would  cut  his  portrait  out  of  illustrated  papers. 
Yes,  Mark  had  reached  the  illustrated  papers: 
no  small  achievement  for  a  painter.  At  thirty 
he  had  quarrelled  with  the  Royal  Academy,  most 
ingeniously  quarrelled  with  the  Royal  Academy, 
Only  a  mongoose  who  has  persuaded  an  elephant 
to  a  formal  encounter  could  appreciate  the  ex- 
treme difficulty  of  Mark's  feat.  He  was  a  member 
of  the  International  Society  of  Painters  and  Sculp- 
tors, and  a  pillar  of  the  New  English  Art  Club. 
The  Royal  Academy,  deprived  forever  of  his  pic- 
tures, struggled  on  without  them.  He  painted  ex- 
tremely well.  The  sole  question,  when  his  name 
came  up  at  the  Chelsea  Arts  Club  or  the  Six  Bells 
public-house  near  by,  was  whether  he  had  genius 
or  merely  talent.  He  made  almost  no  money  by 
his   pictures,   though  examples  of  them  had   been 


12  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

purchased  by  several  European  galleries.  Forihis 
well-known  "Lamplight"  in  the  Luxembourg,  the 
French  Republic  had  paid  its  customary  price  of 
twenty  pounds.  If  Mark  had  depended  upon  his 
brush  alone,  he  might  have  succeeded  in  Europe 
at  large,  but  he  would  never  have  succeeded  per- 
sonally in  the  Five  Towns;  the  older  generation  there 
would  never  have  showered  upon  him  its  best  cigars 
nor  asked  his  opinion  on  its  champagne,  because  he 
could  not  have  afforded  to  dress  for  the  part,  the 
increasingly  powerful  race  of  local  dandies  would 
have  outshone  him  and  rendered  his  visits  ridiculous. 
Fortunately  Mark,  in  addition  to  his  brush,  had  his 
eyes  —  those  eyes,  appealing  and  provocative,  which 
no  young  woman  of  artistic  aspirations  could  with- 
stand. Mark  lived  on  his  painting  classes,  which 
were  crowded  with  the  most  earnest  of  the  sex.  In 
particular  his  summer  sketching-classes,  at  Barbi- 
zon  or  in  Brittany,  were  the  rage  of  cultured  Chelsea 
and  immensely  remunerative.  His  income  was 
perhaps  four  times  Lawrence's  income,  and  at  least 
a  fourth  of  that  of  many  a  first-class  grocer. 

The  two  brothers  were  deeply  attached  to  each 
other.  Save  once,  when  Lawrence  aged  ten  had 
kicked  Mark  aged  seven  out  of  bed  in  the  middle  of 
the  night,  no  slightest  misunderstanding  nor  cold- 
ness had  ever  sullied  their  relations.  On  matters  of 
literature,  painting,  and  music  they  agreed;  on  most 


ON  THE  HILL  13 

other  subjects  they  held  opposing  ideas.  But  they 
seldom  argued.  And  they  were  certainly  not  inti- 
mate. So  little  were  they  intimate  that  when  they 
met,  as  they  did  about  twice  a  year,  the  conver- 
sation invariably  flagged  if  they  were  alone  together, 
unless  some  topic  of  urgency  happened  to  present 
itself.  And  in  the  first  hour  of  meeting  they  were 
positively  self-conscious.  Yet  their  mutual  affec- 
tion was  probably  the  strongest  human  instinct 
in  both  of  them. 

Lawrence  had  telegraphed  that  morning  to  Mark 
to  come  down  and  see  him  without  fail  that  evening, 
and  Mark  had  come,  supposing  a  sudden  crisis  of 
supreme  importance.  But  as  to  the  nature  of  the 
assumed  crisis  he  could  form  no  guess.  He  did  not, 
however,  explode  upon  Lawrence  with  questions, 
nor  did  Lawrence  pour  out  a  tale.  Each,  while 
Lawrence  wiped  his  brows,  waited  diffidently  for 
the  other  to  begin. 

"So  you  biked  up  after  me.?"  said  Mark. 

"I  had  to.  I  borrowed  this  jigger  from  the  office- 
boy.     I  quite  meant  to " 

Lawrence  stopped.  The  front  door  of  his  house 
had  opened  and  a  woman  stood  on  the  steps.  *'  Look 
here,"  he  went  on  breathlessly  and  very  hurriedly, 
"  I've  not  telegraphed  for  you.  "  You^ve  come  down 
to  see  me,  on  business  of  your  own.  Understand? 
There's  Phil  at  the  door." 


14  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

Mark  nodded  comprehension.  Like  all  favourites 
of  women  he  readily  sympathized  with  any  policy 
of  keeping  them  In  the  dark. 

"I'll  talk  to  you  afterward,"  muttered  Law- 
rence, in  a  conspirator's  whisper. 

"Right!"  muttered  Mark. 

"Why,  what  Is  the  meaning  of  thls.^*"  cried  Phyllis 
Ridware  from  the  house  gate. 

Mark  raised  his  hat,  and  stepped  forward  to  greet 
her,  smiling.  All  under  his  eyes  the  skin  wrinkled 
up  when  he  smiled,  and  the  minute  net-work  of  lines 
caused  by  this  continual  wrinkling  had  become  a 
permanent  feature  of  his  face.  The  smile  pro- 
duced in  every  woman  the  Illusion  that  she  and  none 
other  could  have  made  the  bachelor  Mark  happy! 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  know.^"'  he  chaffed  her. 

Then,  taking  her  hand  over  the  gate,  and  growing 
suddenly  very  grave,  he  glanced  at  her  with  an  air 
that  said:  "With  you  I  must  be  absolutely  candid 
and  sincere,"  and  he  murmured,  "No.  The  fact 
is  I've  been  getting  myself  Into  a  legal  mess,  and 
Lawrence  has  got  to  get  me  out  of  It." 

Phyllis  Ridware  gazed  at  her  brother-in-law 
questlonlngly,  piercingly.  And  she  dropped  his  hand. 

She  was  nearly  as  dark  in  colour  as  the  brothers, 
a  woman  of  middle  height,  with  the  least  possible 
tendency  to  plumpness,  dressed  in  black.  Her  years 
were  thirty,  and  she  had  been  married  at  twenty- 


ON  THE  HILL  15 

four.  She  had  a  very  beautiful  face,  beautiful  in  its 
contours  and  in  its  pale  olive  complexion,  but  with 
the  beauty  that  appeals  to  painters  more  than  to 
common  persons.  The  vast  majority  of  people  in 
Bursley  would  not  have  called  her  beautiful.  And 
Mark's  enthusiasm  for  her  face  had  always  been 
surprising  even  to  Lawrence,  who  was  compelled  to 
admit  in  the  privacy  of  his  soul  that  Mark  had  first 
taught  him  to  enjoy  more  perfectly  the  rare  curves 
of  mouth  and  nostrils  and  the  severe  purity  of  that 
classic  oval.  For  the  rest,  she  was  one  of  those 
women  whose  faces  afford  little  information  — and 
that  chiefly  misleading  —  about  their  thoughts,  one 
of  those  women  who  seem  to  be  always  communing 
with  nature's  Inmost  secret  and  never  to  be  giving 
you  quite  the  whole  of  their  attention,  one  of  those 
women  who  have  no  true  appreciation  of  facts  and 
yet  appear  to  possess  the  very  essence  of  all  wisdom. 
Perhaps  they  do;  perhaps  they  do  not.  No  man  will 
ever  know. 

"And  your  luggage?"  she  questioned,  opening 
the  gate. 

"Haven't  got  any,  except  a  tooth-brush.  Must 
go  back  first  train  in  the  morning." 

"Must  you?"  Lawrence  demanded,  evidently 
disappointed,  with  emphasis. 

"Yes,"  said  Mark,  tapping  the  nail  of  his  thumb 
against  his  teeth.     "I  must." 


i6  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

Phyllis  glanced  at  her  husband. 

"You're  in  a  nice  state,"  she  observed. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  after  a  little  pause,  "I  meant 
to  meet  Mark  at  Knype. "  (Knype  is  the  main-line 
station  for  all  the  Five  Towns,  and  the  radiating 
centre  of  the  local  lines.)  "But  I  couldn't.  So  I 
jumped  on  this  thing  and  tried  to  meet  him  at 
Bleakridge  Station.  I  was  too  late  for  that  too,  and 
so  I  bicycled  up  here  after  him  as  quick  as  I  could." 

"I  see,"  said  Phyllis  mysteriously. 

They  entered  the  house. 

Phyllis  shut  the  door,  called  the  servant  to  wheel 
the  bicycle  out  of  the  way,  and  told  her  briefly  to 
lay  another  cover  for  supper.  She  then  went  into 
the  drawing-room,  humming  an  air,  and  Mark, 
after  he  had  taken  off  his  hat  and  coat,  followed  her. 
She  sat  down  to  the  piano,  perching  herself  sideways 
on  the  stool.     Mark  approached  the  window. 

"Ye  gods!"  he  exclaimed.  "These  sunsets  alone 
are  worth  the  rent  you  pay  for  this  place." 

Phyllis  began  to  play. 

"What's  that  you're  playing.'"'  he  asked,  going  to 
the  piano. 

"Aren't  you  coming  up  to  wash.?"  said  Lawrence 
awkwardly,  putting  his  head  into  the  room. 

Mark  looked  up  from  Phyllls's  fingers. 

"Not  I!"  he  said.  "You  know  I  always  wash 
in  the  express,  between  Sneyd  and  Knype.  It  saves 


ON  THE  HILL  17 

time,  and  It's  something  to  do.  Isn't  my  hair 
straight?" 

"Perfectly,"  said  Phyllis.  "Play  this  duet  with  me." 

Lawrence  silently  disappeared.  Mark  piled  some 
bound  music  on  to  a  chair,  dragged  the  chair  to  the 
piano,  and  sat  down  by  Phyllis's  left  side. 

"Five  sharps!"  he  complained,  "I  shall  never  be 
able  to  read  It.     And  Schumann  at  that!" 

"Stuff!"  said  Phyllis. 

His  visits  usually  started  abruptly  in  this  way, 
with  music. 

When  they  went  Into  the  dining-room,  which  was 
on  the  other  side  of  the  small  hall,  Lawrence  was 
already  seated  at  table.  The  supper  (for  it  was  not 
dinner,  and  was  not  termed  dinner)  had  been  agree- 
ably and  even  enticingly  spread,  and  a  suspended 
lamp,  with  an  orange-tinted  shade,  hung  low  over 
its  white  cloth  and  crystal  and  blue  china.  Phyllis 
seemed  never  to  interest  herself  for  more  than  a 
minute  at  a  time  in  her  household,  but  she  could 
apparently  choose  precisely  the  minutes  when 
guidance  would  be  valuable.  She  despised  the 
domestic  craft,  while  thoroughly  understanding  It. 
The  house  had  been  taken  furnished  by  Lawrence 
from  an  acquaintance  on  very  advantageous  terms, 
and  she  had  transformed  it  with  the  minimum  of 
labour  from  a  furnished  house  into  a  home.  Never- 
theless she  was  not  one  of  those  feminine  creatures 


1 8  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

who  with  half  a  yard  of  cretonne,  several  photo- 
graphs, and  a  right-about-face  of  the  piano  insist 
on  giving  the  "woman's  touch"  to  a  room  previously 
habitable.  She  cared  not  for  frills.  I  doubt  if 
she  had  the  "sentiment  of  the  interior."  When, 
six  months  before,  Lawrence  had  allowed  himself  to 
be  recalled  to  England  after  four  years  spent  in 
Glasgow,  and  Lawrence  as  usual  had  been  unable  to 
decide  exactly  what  to  do,  it  was  she  who  had  without 
a  pang  suggested  the  storing  of  their  furniture  in 
Glasgow  until  such  time  as  Lawrence  should  have 
communed  with  his  soul  and  learnt  whether  the 
residence  in  the  Five  Towns  was  to  be  permanent 
or  merely  temporary. 

Lawrence  sat  with  his  back  to  the  window, 
Phyllis  opposite  to  him  with  her  back  to  the  side- 
board, and  Mark  between  them,  facing  the  fireplace. 
The  room  was  full.  Lawrence,  with  an  effort, 
asked  Mark  if  he  had  seen  a  certain  new  edition  of 
Robert  Greene.  Their  common  ground  was  mainly 
literature,  in  which  domain  Lawrence  was  indeed 
capable  of  taking  the  superior  place  proper  to  an 
elder  brother.  Mark  might  cut  a  figure  in  the 
great  world;  he  might  lay  down  the  law  to  Lawrence 
upon  the  graphic  arts;  he  might  flatter  himself  upon 
being  exceptionally  well  read,  upon  his  genuine 
passion  for  reading;  but  he  could  not  pretend  to  be 
Lawrence's  equal  in  the   realms  of  printed  matter. 


ON  THE  HILL  19 

Lawrence  lived  for  books;  he  could  only  live  among 
books;  the  little  house  at  Toft  End  bulged  with 
books,  but  there  were  also  stored  many  cases  of 
them  in  Glasgow.  Lawrence  did  not  write,  did  not 
attempt  to  write;  he  could  not  waste  time  in  writ- 
ing.    He  read.     In  a  word,  he  was  a  bookman. 

Mark  had  not  seen  the  new  edition  of  Robert 
Greene,  and  said  so,  and  a  dismal,  disquieting  silence 
followed  the  host's  forlorn  attempt  to  make  con- 
versation. Mark  perceived,  and  not  too  soon,  that 
the  atmosphere  was  disturbed.  He  saw  suddenly 
that  he  ought  to  have  accepted  Lawrence's  invi- 
tation to  go  upstairs  in  order  to  chat  privately,  if 
only  for  a  few  moments.  Why  had  he  not  gone 
upstairs.''  He  was  of  course  exceedingly  curious  to 
know  what  had  led  Lawrence  to  summon  him  from 
London.  It  must  have  been  the  attraction  of 
Phyllis's  personality,  and  of  her  face,  which  had 
kept  him  in  the  drawing-room.  He  was  fond  of 
examining  himself,  of  prying  scientifically  into  his 
heart,  and  he  told  himself  with  judicial  severity  that 
in  Phyllis  lay  the  explanation  of  his  error  of  tactics. 

Had  Lawrence  quarrelled  with  Phyllis.''  No! 
Impossible!  Had  some  financial  trouble  supervened 
and  was  Lawrence  hiding  it  and  was  Phyllis  sus- 
pecting him  of  hiding  it.''  Did  Lawrence,  to  put 
it   crudely,  want   money.''     Impossible!     Then 

At  any  rate,  Mark  could  know  nothing  until  the 


20  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

meal  was  over,  and  in  his  quality  of  man  of  the 
larger  world  he  thought  that  it  was  the  duty  of 
every  one  to  live  through  the  meal  with  tranquil 
pleasantness.  He  therefore  remarked,  in  a  tone 
pleasantly  tranquil: 

"Well,  have  you  folks  decided  yet  whether  you 
mean  to  stay  here  or  go  back  to  Glasgow?" 

There  was  no  immediate  answer,  and  he  pro- 
ceeded, obstinately  cheerful: 

"I  suppose  you  won't  keep  living  in  a  furnished 
house  forever?" 

"No,"  said  Lawrence. 

"Fearns  wants  you  to  stick  by  him,  I  expect?" 

"  I  don't  know.  He  may  have  a  chance  of  another 
partner,"  said  Lawrence. 

Phyllis  meanwhile  had  contributed  nothing  but 
the  enigma  of  her  vague  smile. 

"Do  you  like  Glasgow,  Phil?"  Mark  demanded  of 
her.     "I  forget." 

She  paused  with  a  lightly  laden  fork.  "There's 
more  *go'  there,"  she  said,  pointedly. 

"Women  are  cautious!"  thought  Mark,  the  ex- 
pert. "No  one  would  guess  it,  but  she's  having  a  dig 
at  poor  old  Lawrence's  general  lack  of  enterprise." 

Another  pause  ensued. 

"I  saw  the  great  Charlie  the  other  night,"  Mark 
presently  resumed. 

"What,  Fearns?"  Lawrence  asked. 


ON  THE  HILL  21 

"Yes.  In  the  promenade  at  the  Empire.  It's 
all  very  well,  you  know,  but  Master  Charlie  does  go 
the  pace.  He'll  be  getting  himself  into  the  Divorce 
Court  one  of  these  days.  And  then  what  a  sen- 
sation for  the  Five  Towns!" 

And  Mark  was  astounded  to  observe  that  both 
Lawrence  and  Phyllis  were  confused  to  the  point  of 
blushing.  He  was  astounded  because  for  years  he 
had  been  accustomed  to  talk  with  very  considerable 
freedom  in  the  presence  of  Phyllis.  Phyllis  was 
afraid  of  neither  ideas  nor  words.  Indeed  her 
imperturbability  under  a  fire  of  straight  talking  had 
more  than  once  surprised  him.  And  what  had  he 
said  now.?  .  .  .  Well,  he  gave  women  up,  and 
decided  that  Lawrence  must  be  yielding  to  the  reac- 
tionary influences  of  old  age.     What  had  he  said.? 

Surely  the  reputation  of  Charlie  Fearns  was  suf- 
ficiently notorious!  Surely  it  wasn't  sacred!  .  .  . 
Perhaps  the  mysterious  secret  was  connected  with 
Fearns.     But  how 

Phyllis  had  retreated  to  the  mantelpiece,  in  order 
to  ring  the  bell.  She  returned  with  a  face  perfectly 
recomposed.  And  then  the  servant  came  in  with  a 
tray  and  coffee.  As  soon  as  the  girl  had  gone,  Mark, 
^.with  characteristic  pertinacity,  made  one  more 
opening  in  the  pleasantly  tranquil  vein. 

"I  see  you've  got  a  new  servant  since  Christmas," 
he  said.     "What's  become  of  Lottie .? " 


22  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

Lawrence  appeared  to  mumble  something. 

"What?"  Mark  demanded. 

"Married,"  said  Lawrence,  in  a  hoarse  and 
trembling  voice. 

And  again  husband  and  wife  were  blushing! 
Mark  abandoned  the  affair.  He  owned  himself 
defeated,  utterly  at  a  loss.  After  all,  he  reflected,  you 
can  only  be  a  man  of  the  world  in  the  world.  This 
was  not  the  first  time  that  he  had  tried  to  be  a  man  of 
the  world  in  the  Five  Towns  and  had  not  succeeded. 

The  meal  was  a  failure.  It  ended  by  being  a 
torture  and  an  agony.  Lawrence's  condition  grew 
more  and  more  deplorable.  Phyllis  stared  fixedly 
at  her  coffee.  The  tension  was  such  that  Mark 
dared  not  even  produce  his  cigar-case  and  light 
a  cigar.  He  was  on  the  very  point  of  audaciously 
snapping  the  cord  by  a  curt  appeal:  "Look  here, 
you  two  —  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  what's  the  matter, 
instead  of  going  on  like  this,"  when  Phyllis  suddenly 
jumped  up  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him  with  a 
smile  of  the  most  absolute  placidity. 

"Good  night!"  she  said,  in  the  gentlest  and 
serenest  accents,  just  as  though  her  supper  had 
been  a  unique  conversational  triumph. 

"You  aren't  going  to  bed.^" 

"Yes,  I've  got  a  bad  headache.  I  must  look  after 
your  bed  for  you,  and  I  won't  come  down  again. 
Good  night." 


ON  THE  HILL  23 

"Well "     He  opened  the  door  for  her. 

"Besides,  you  have  to  consult  Lawrence,"  she 
said  airily,  with  a  strange  intonation,  as  she  slipped 
out  of  the  room. 

Giving  women  up  anew,  and  this  time  with  a 
renunciation  more  complete  than  ever,  Mark  shut 
the  door  and  strode  back  to  the  table. 

"Perhaps  you'll  tell  me  what's  the  rowP''  he 
addressed  Lawrence,  violently  flinging  down  his 
serviette. 

"My  wife's  the  row,"  Lawrence  replied,  and  he 
went  to  the  morsel  of  fire  that  was  burning  and 
poked  it,  and  continued  to  poke  it,  staring  up  the 
chimney  as  if  he  expected  to  discover  something 
unusual  there.  His  voice  was  tragically  desolate; 
surcharged  with  woe,  with  disgust,  and  with  the 
asperity  of  disillusion.  And  as  Mark's  eyes  rested 
upon  the  thin  stooping  figure  with  the  nervous 
heavy  hands  and  the  slightly  soiled  wristbands  in 
the  confined  stuffy  little  room  full  of  other  people's 
furniture,  a  wave  of  terrible  painful  sympathy  with 
Lawrence  flowed  up  from  his  heart  to  his  throat; 
and  to  control  himself  he  made  involuntarily  the 
motion  of  swallowing  and  was  startled  to  find  how 
dry  his  mouth  was.  He  knew  not  what  was  the 
matter  between  Lawrence  and  Phyllis,  but  the 
quality  of  his  brother's  voice  warned  him  that  dur- 
ing the  meal  he  had  blundered  among  primary,  ele- 


24  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

mental  things  without  guessing  it,  and  that  now  he 
must  make  amends  by  rising  to  the  supremacy 
of  the  occasion. 

He    could    not  speak,  this    man    of    the    world. 

"Pass  me  a  match,"  said  Lawrence,  who    had 

taken  an  arm-chair  by  the  fire  and  was  filling  his 

pipe.     Mark   leaned    forward    and    put    a    box   of 

matches  on  the  edge  of  the  table  nearest  the  fire. 

■  ;    "Well?"  he   managed  to  say  at  length,  gruffly. 

Lawrence  puffed  at  his  pipe. 

"She's  been  playing  about  with  another  man," 
said  Lawrence  between  two  puff's. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  she's "  Mark  could 

not  bring  himself  to  finish  the  sentence. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Lawrence,  throwing  the  match 
into  the  fire,  and  sticking  his  chin  out. 

Mark  felt  the  blood  colouring  his  cheeks.  He  was 
extremely  uncomfortable.  In  the  common  phrase, 
he  did  not  know  where  to  look.  It  was  as  though 
he  had  been  suddenly  made  guilty  of  some  crime. 
He  had  collected  in  his  career  various  comforting 
theories  on  the  sexual  relation;  he  was  strongly  in 
favour  of  recognizing  the  facts  of  nature  and  of 
marking  conventions  down  to  their  real  value;  in 
other  words,  he  was  an  enlightened  and  large- 
minded  person.  But  these  handsome,  bold  theories 
ran  away  like  cowards  before  his  brother's  concrete 
case.     As    for   the   supper,    it   seemed   monstrous. 


ON  THE  HILL  25 

nightmarish,  incredible,  that  the  supper  should  have 
occurred  at  all. 

"Who's  the  chap?"  he  asked. 

"Greatbatch,"  said  Lawrence,  gazing  hard  into 
Mark's  eyes. 

There  are  hundreds  of  Greatbatches  in  the  Five 
Towns,  but  Mark  did  not  put  any  further  question. 
Phyllis  had  once  been  engaged  to  Emery  Greatbatch, 
an  under-master  of  the  Middle  School  at  Oldcastle. 
He  and  Lawrence  and  Mark  had  been  boys  together 
at  that  same  school. 

"Well,  of  course  you've  simply  staggered  me, 
that's  all!"  said  Mark  at  length. 

"Yes,"  said   Lawrence,  "  it's  pretty  staggering." 

"But " 

The  "but"  was  merely  the  expression  of  Mark's 
inferiority  to  the  situation,  the  embryo  of  a  protest 
against  the  manner  in  which  the  situation  had 
shaken  his  confidence  in  himself.  Frankly,  he  had 
not  so  much  as  suspected  that  Lawrence  and  Phyllis 
were  on  other  than  terms  of  mutual  confidence. 
Frankly,  he  had  envied  Lawrence,  and  during  the 
supper  he  had  not  ceased  to  envy  Lawrence,  saying 
to  himself  that  domestic  storms  and  even  battles 
added  zest  to  existence,  and  that  anything  was 
preferable  to  the  eternal  void  of  the  bachelor's 
life.  Thus,  as  a  philosopher  and  observer,  had 
he     reflected,    blind    as    a     child     to     the     fearful 


26  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

reality  into  which  he  had  stepped.  It  was  morti- 
fying. 

"But  what.'"'  Lawrence  puffed. 

"Nothing,"  said  Mark.     "Tell  me  about  it." 

"There  isn't  much  to  tell,"  Lawrence  replied. 
"I  got  that  this  morning." 

He  drew  a  folded  letter  from  his  pocket  and 
pitched  it  to  Mark.  The  letter  was  inscribed  in 
characters  to  imitate  print,  and  ran:  "Dear  Sir, 
Why  don't  you  look  after  your  wife  and  Emery 
Greatbatch.''  This  is  a  hint  from  yours  truly, 
A  friend." 

■'The classic  anonymous  letter,"  Mark  commented. 

"The  classic  anonymous  letter,"  Lawrence  agreed. 
"Everybody  is  against  anonymous  letters  in  theory; 
every  one  says  they  ought  to  be  ignored  and  the 
writers  thrashed.  But  in  actual  practice  —  well, 
it's  different.  The  average  conventional  man  would 
say  that  I  ought  to  have  shown  that  letter  to  Phyllis, 
or  burnt  it  and  forgotten  it.  I  couldn't  do  either. 
And  the  average  conventional  man  wouldn't  have 
done  either.  I  telegraphed  for  you.  I  thought 
I'd  just  talk  it  over  with  you." 

"Know  who  it's  from.^"  asked  Mark,  gradually 
recovering  himself,  and  determined  to  show  Law- 
rence that  a  younger  brother  might  be  relied  on  as  a 
fount  of  practical  sagacity.  "You've  kept  the 
envelope.''     What  was  the  postmark.?" 


ON  THE  HILL  27 

"Wait  a  bit,  wait  a  bit,"  said  Lawrence  testily. 
"That's  not  all." 

"No,  I  don't  suppose  it  is,"  Mark  put  in  quickly. 
"You  wouldn't  hang  a  dog  on  that." 

"The  postmark  is  Hanbridge  Central.  So  that's 
no  guide.  However,  I  don't  care  twopence  who 
sent  it!  I  want  to  tell  you  about  something  else. 
Last  August  I  saw  Phyllis  and  that  swine  walking 
together  out  of  St.  Enoch's  Station." 

"Glasgow?" 

"Yes.  They  didn't  see  me.  It  was  an  accident. 
When  I  got  home  in  the  evening  Phyllis  said  nothing 
about  having  met  him.  And  I  didn't  tell  her  I'd 
seen  them.  I  wished  I  had  done  so,  the  next  morn- 
ing, but  it  was  too  late  then." 

"Why  too  late.?" 

"Simply  because  I  couldn't  have  done  it  naturally, 
then.  Don't  you  see.?  Well,  I  thought  it  might 
have  been  a  chance  meeting.  I  thought  that 
Phyllis  hadn't  cared  to  mention  it  to  me  out  of  a 
certain  shyness,  you  see,  as  she'd  been  engaged  to 
the  fellow  when  she  was  a  young  girl.  That  would 
be  natural  enough,  wouldn't  it?  Then  I  thought 
all  sorts  of  other  things.  The  damned  thing  stuck 
in  my  mind.  The  fact  is,  one  minute  I  suspected 
the  worst  and  another  minute  I  said  the  mere 
notion  of  anything  being  wrong  was  grotesque.  I 
used  to  get  up  earlier  in  the  mornings  to  see  the 


28  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

letters  first,  but  I  never  came  across  anything 
peculiar." 

"But  I  always  thought  you  and  Phyllis  got  on 
awfully  well  together!"  cried  Mark  naively. 

"Did  you,^"  snarled  Lawrence,  in  a  tone  so  dry, 
sarcastic  and  acrid  that  not  another  word  was  needed 
to  indicate  to  Mark  the  disaster  that  his  brother's 
married  life  must  have  been. 

"I  certainly  thought  so,"  he  repeated  weakly. 

"My  wife  has  been  nothing  to  me  for  four  years," 
Lawrence  proceeded.  "She  hates  me.  I  believe 
that  woman  positively  hates  me,  and  I " 

"But  she's  so " 


<<■ 


My  dear  fellow,  you  know  nothing  about  women." 
Mark    smiled    sheepishly.     (But    his    soul    said: 
Oh!  don't  L?") 

I  meant  to  meet  you  at  Knype  this  evening,  and 
I  thought  we'd  go  somewhere  and  talk  it  over. 
That  was  why  I  telegraphed  you  to  be  sure  to  catch 
the  three  ten  express.  And  just  as  I  was  leaving 
the  blessed  office  who  should  walk  in  but  Lottie!" 
"Your  old  servant?" 

"Yes.  I  told  her  I  couldn't  stop,  but  she  said  I 
must.  I  never  saw  a  girl  more  changed  than  she 
has  in  four  months.  She's  as  sharp  as  a  needle,  and 
neat,  you  wouldn't  believe!  She  wouldn't  let  me 
go  till  I'd  taken  her  into  my  room  —  said  she'd  come 
all  the  way  over  from  Stafford  on  purpose  and  wasn't 


ON  THE  HILL  29 

going  back  without  talking  to  me.  Well,  she  told 
me  that  Phyllis  had  seen  Greatbatch  several  times 
at  a  house  in  Manifold  where  he  had  been  lodging 
during  his  Easter  holidays.  You  know  the  school  is 
closed  for  a  week,  then.  And  again  once  at  Whit- 
suntide—  beginningof  last  week!"  Lawrence  paused. 
"Last  week!"  he  repeated  angrily. 

"How  did  Lottie  know,  if  she  lives  at 
Stafford?" 

"She  knew  because  the  house  belongs  to  an  aunt 
of  hers,  who  lets  rooms,  for  the  fishing,  you  know. 
It's  just  one  of  those  coincidences  that  do  give  the 
show  away.  I  expect  Phyllis  thought  she  was 
perfectly  safe.  Walk  down  the  other  side  of  the 
hill  here  to  Stockley,  take  the  train  to  Manifold, 
come  back  in  the  afternoon,  and  there  you  are  ! 
Phyllis  didn't  know  who  the  aunt  was,  and  the  aunt 
didn't  know  who  Phyllis  was.  But  last  week  Lottie's 
mother  pays  a  visit  to  her  sister  and  sees  Phyllis 
and  Greatbatch  leaving  together.  There  you  are! 
The  mother  tells  Lottie.  Lottie  says  she  shall  tell 
me.  The  mother  says  she  mustn't  and  that  no 
good  comes  of  interfering  with  other  people's  bus- 
iness. But  Lottie  sticks  to  it  she  shall.  And  she 
does.  And  there  you  are!  There  you  are!  Noth- 
ing simpler!" 

Lawrence  was  now  standing  up,  very  excited,  and 
he  kept  repeating  under  his  breath :  "There  you  are !" 


30  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

between  puffs  of  his  pipe;  and  at  each  pufF  his  thin 
fine  lips  closed  tightly  on  the  pipe. 

At  that  moment  Lottie's  successor  came  into 
the  room. 

"What  do  you  want.^"  Lawrence  frowned  on  her 
savagely. 

"I  —  I  came  to  clear  the  things  away,  sir,"  she 
stammered. 

"Clear  yourself  away!  Don't  come  worrying 
here  now!"  cried  Lawrence,  apparently  furious, 
Mark  scarcely  recognized  his  brother,  so  changed 
was  his  manner.  The  servant  fled  before  the  tempest, 
another  victim  of  human  injustice.  She  left  the 
door  ajar,  and  Mark  shut  it. 

"Look  here,  my  boy,"  said  Mark.  "You'd 
better  sit  down." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  want  you  to,  if  you  don't  mind." 

Lawrence  obeyed.  Enheartened  by  this  proof  of 
his  authority,  Mark  at  last  cut  and  lighted  a  cigar. 
Then  he  too  sat  down.  He  spread  out  his  knees, 
fixed  the  cigar  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  put 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  smoked  himself  into 
a  cloud. 

"Why  did  Lottie  leave  here.^"  he  asked. 

"She  left  to  get  married." 

"But  she  was  only  eighteen." 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it.''     It  seemed  to 


ON  THE  HILL  31 

me  this  afternoon  that  she  knew  a  lot  more  about 
life  than  I  did." 

"She  doesn't  like  Phyllis?" 

"I  don't  know.     She  likes  me  —  always  did." 

"Hm!  And  how  did  Phyllis  explain  her  visits 
to  Manifold  to  you.''     Or  didn't  she  explain  them.^" 

"She's  gota wonderful  dressmakerthere.  Cheaper 
and  better  than  anything  in  the  Five  Towns,  she 
always  says.  And  you  may  be  sure  that  she's 
never  been  to  Manifold  without  calling  at  her 
dressmaker's.  You  may  be  sure  of  that!  Trust 
her!" 

Mark  hesitated  before  he  asked: 
She  never  spent  a  night  there  .^" 
'Yes,    by   God,    she    did!     On   Easter    Sunday! 
She  gave  the  servant  a  holiday." 

"But  where  were  you?" 

"Wasn't  I  in  London  with  you,  man?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Mark.  "I  was  forgetting. 
I  remember  she  wrote  me  she  didn't  feel  equal 
to  London." 

"I  should  say  she  didn't!"  Lawrence  muttered 
and  went  on:  "Oh!  there's  no  doubt  about  it!  Even 
apart  from  Easter  Sunday  night,  there's  no  doubt 
about  it.  .  .  .  If  you'd  heard  Lottie,  my  dear 
fellow!  By  the  way,  Lottie's  aunt  must  be  a  regu- 
lar landlady  —  misses  nothing.  And  women  have 
no  sense  of  decency.  You  don't  know!    The  things 


32  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

Lottie  told  me  without  turning  a  hair  made  me 
feel  deuced  awkward." 

"Fancy  Lottie!"  murmured  Mark. 

Lawrence  sighed.  "I've  brought  you  down  from 
London  for  nothing,"  he  said  in  a  calmer  tone. 
"I  wanted  to  discuss  with  you  what  I  ought  to  do 
about  that  anonymous  letter  —  give  it  me  here!  — 
but  that's  of  no  importance  now.  Still  I'm  awfully 
glad  you  came." 

"  So  am  I, "  said  Mark,  handing  the  letter.  "  But 
why  in  thunder  didn't  you  tell  me  about  all  this 
before  supper?     I  hadn't  a  notion. " 

"My  dear  chap,"  Lawrence  protested  crossly, 
"how  could  I?  I  couldn't  get  to  Knype,  and  I 
couldn't  get  to  Bleakbridge.  I  only  caught  you  at 
the  house-door.  I  asked  you  to  come  upstairs  but 
you  wouldn't." 

"You  ought  to  have  insisted.'* 

"Oh!  that's  all  very  well,"  Lawrence  complained. 
"You  were  with  Phyllis." 

"The  situation  was  Impossible!"  said  Mark. 
"Impossible!     Imagine  that  supper!" 

"I  know,"  Lawrence  concurred.  "But  what  was 
I  to  do.?" 

Mark  was  silent.  He  said  to  himself  that  he  had 
never  encountered  a  more  glaring  instance  of 
Lawrence's  fatal  lack  of  enterprise  and  initiative. 
Because   he  could   not   decide   upon   any   definite 


ON  THE  HILL  33 

course  of  action,  because  he  was  incapable  of 
taking  circumstances  by  the  neck,  Lawrence 
had  submitted  to  the  appalling  humiliation  of  the 
supper! 

"The  question  is,  what  you're  going  to  do,"  said 
Mark  positively.  "What  are  you  going  to  do  to- 
night, for  instance?" 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Lawrence.  "I  only 
know  I'm  not  going  to  sleep  here.  You  must  tell 
her  I've  been  told  everything.     She's  no  idea." 

"Oh,  hasn't  she!"  Mark  exclaimed.  "I  bet  you 
what  you  like  she  has!  Didn't  you  notice  her 
face  when  I  mentioned  Lottie?" 

"No!"  said  Lawrence,  surprised. 

"Why,  she  blushed  like  anything!" 

"I  never  noticed  it.  I  didn't  see  her,"  said 
Lawrence  feebly. 

"In  .some  way  or  other  she  must  have  smelt 
danger  —  that  I'll  stake  my  life  on!" 

"In  any  case  she's  got  to  be  formally  told," 
Lawrence  persisted.  "And  I  shall  be  much  obliged 
to  you  if  you'll  go  upstairs  and  tell  her." 

"All right!"  said  Mark,  crossing  his  legs  nervously. 
"Now?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  you'll  put  'em  in  the  Divorce  Court  at  once  ? " 

"I  —  I  suppose  so,"  said  Lawrence. 
V^dl  —  zvon't  you?" 


((' 


34  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

"I  suppose  there's  nothing  else  for  it,"  said 
Lawrence  uneasily,  tapping  his  pipe. 

"I  should  think  there  was  nothing  else  for  it!" 
Mark  retorted,  wrathful.  *'It's  the  only  decent 
thing  to  do.  I  can't  understand  your  hesitating. 
What  alternative  is  there  .^" 

"My  dear  chap,  I'm  not  hesitating,"  Lawrence 
defended  himself  hotly.  "I  shall  tell  Fearns  about 
it  first  thing  in  the  morning  and  get  the  petition 
out  at  once."     And  he  stamped  his  foot. 

"Oh,  well,  all  serene,  then!"  Mark  soothed  him. 

He  was  ashamed  of  having  shown  even  the  slightest 
irritation.  Lawrence  was  not  responsible  for  the 
limitations  of  his  own  character.  Lawrence  acted 
as  he  could,  as  his  individuality  would  allow  him  to 
act,  not  as  he  would.  Lawrence  could  not  be  ex- 
pected to  be  a  combination  of  Lawrence  and  of  him, 
Mark.  The  general  fineness  of  Lawrence's  percep- 
tions, the  almost  invariable  distinction  of  his  atti- 
tude toward  life  —  these  qualities  in  Lawrence 
presented  themselves  for  Mark's  admiration  and 
seemed  to  atone  for  defects  which  perhaps  necessarily 
sprang  from  them.  It  was  ineffably  tragic  to  Mark 
that  Lawrence,  spiritually  so  delicate  in  organization 
should  have  been  selected  by  destiny  to  suffer  this 
coarse  disaster,  this  disaster  which  overthrew  his 
nicely  poised  balance  and  showed  him  at  his  worst. 

"Yes,"  thought  Mark,  "it  is  a  tragedy  at  which  I 


ON  THE  HILL  35 

am  assisting.  And  I  may  never  get  nearer  to  the 
heart  of  life  than  I  am  at  this  moment!" 

His  mind  swept  back  to  their  school-days.  Great- 
batch  and  he  were  in  the  Lower  Sixth  and  Lawrence 
was  head  of  the  school,  a  Titan  of  exact  learning. 
And  they  all  imagined  themselves  such  big  boys, 
while  in  fact  they  were  quite  little!  And  the  in- 
nocence of  those  days,  the  immaculate  purity  of 
those  days,  appeared  to  him  marvellous,  ideal, 
infinitely  beautiful!  Greatbatch  used  to  be  a 
delightful  fellow,  and  now,  what  a  change!  Ah! 
This  repugnant,  vile  process  of  growing  up,  this 
soilure  of  the  most  perfect  physical  purity  the  world 
contained,  this  commerce  with  women,  women 
to  whom  nature  had  denied  physical  purity!  It 
was  lamentable,  hateful,  nauseous.  One  moment 
they  were  all  innocent  schoolboys  together,  and  the 
next,  lo!  the  Divorce  Court.  A  chance  spying  at  a 
railway  station,  two  lines  of  a  letter,  a  few  words  from 
a  girl  who  only  the  other  day  must  have  been  a 
child  in  a  board  school,  and  the  full  crisis  was 
achieved!  And  what  secret  shames  had  made  the 
crisis  possible,  what  misunderstandings,  what 
lyings  and  deceptions,  what  miseries,  what  morti- 
fications, what  anguish,  what  debasement! 

It  was  nothing!  It  was  the  most  ordinary  thing 
on  earth!  Two  people  had  cared  for  each  other  and 
had  ceased  to  care  for  each  other,  and  a  third  person 


36  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

had  come  between  them.  Why  not,  since  they  had 
ceased  to  care?  What  was  love?  A  contact,  of 
souls  or  bodies  or  both.  What  was  the  Divorce 
Court  but  an  administrative  machine  of  the  State? 
It  was  nothing.  And  yet  it  was  everything!  He 
could  not  look  at  Lawrence  without  feeling  pro- 
foundly that  it  was  everything.  Poor  tragic  figure! 
Aged  thirty-eight!  An  unromantic  age,  an  age  not 
calculated  to  attract  sympathy  from  an  unreflective 
world.  But  how  in  need  of  sympathy!  Youth 
gone,  innocence  gone,  enthusiasms  gone,  illusions 
gone,  bodily  powers  waning!  Only  the  tail-end 
of  existence  to  look  forward  to!  And  Lawrence 
had  never  succeeded.  He  had  never,  after  leaving 
school,  sparkled  in  the  sunlight,  never  emerged  from 
the  shadow.  His  was  the  common  gray  career. 
Mark's  love  for  Lawrence,  as  he  furtively  watched 
him  smoking  Navy  Cut  there  by  the  fire,  well  nigh 
burst  the  bonds  of  his  heart.  It  was  intolerable, 
more  than  Mark  could  bear.  If  English  brothers 
kissed,  he  would  have  rushed  to  him  and  kissed  his 
brother.  He  would  have  enveloped  him  in  an 
atmosphere  of  tenderness.  He  would  have  consoled 
him  by  caresses  for  all  his  pain.  This  being  out  of 
the  question,  Mark  pretended  that  the  wick  of  the 
lamp  was  too  high  and  turned  it  down  somewhat. 

"Look  here,  my  boy,"  said  Lawrence  with  false 
calm, "  instead  of  fiddling  with  that  lamp  I  wish  you'd 


ON  THE  HILL  37 

go  upstairs  and  speak  to  Phyllis,  at  once.  We  must 
get  it  over.  I'll  go  out  while  you  do  it.  You  can 
ask  her  to  come  into  the  drawing-room." 

"Very  well,"  said  Mark,  and  rose.  He  flattered 
himself  on  being  pre-eminently  a  man  of  action. 
Lawrence  rose  also. 

But  when  Mark  opened  the  door,  his  heart  beating 
with  timorous  excited  anticipation  of  the  ordeal  that 
lay  before  him,  he  saw  Phyllis  in  the  passage.  She 
was  dressed  for  walking,  and  wore  a  black  hat  and 
jacket,  and  her  gloved  hands  were  in  the  act  of 
drawing  a  veil  down  over  her  mouth. 

She  looked  at  him  fixedly,  and  dropped  her  hands, 
in  one  of  which  Mark  noticed  a  small  purse.  Mark, 
entirely  at  a  loss  what  to  do,  shuffled  under  her  calm 
gaze,  uneasily. 

"Mayn't  I  come  in,  then?"  she  demanded,  with 
a  low  but  intensely  clear  and  precise  articulation; 
and,  the  phrase  achieved,  her  lips  closed  resolutely 
into  a  firm  line. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon!"  he  exclaimed  and  drew 
aside  in  nervous  haste  to  let  her  pass. 

She  entered  the  room,  bringing  into  it  with  the 
soft  murmur  of  her  skirts  a  strange  and  troubling 
effluence.  And  she  glanced  around.  Neither  of  the 
brothers  spoke.  Mark  had  placed  himself  against 
the  wall,  next  to  the  mahogany  sideboard,  and  he 
was  close  to  her,  seeing  her  face  in  profile.     Lawrence 


38  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

stared,  at  first  blankly  and  then  angrily,  putting  his 
hand  to  his  pipe  but  not  removing  it  from  his  mouth. 
Mark,  though  he  wished,  could  not  break  the  dreadful 
silence.  He  too  was  reduced  to  staring  impotently 
at  the  apparation  that  had  captured  their  masculine 
fortress.  Her  face  was  beautiful  beneath  the  veil, 
beautiful!  He  noted  the  gradations  of  that  rare 
complexion,  flushed  now,  and  the  exquisite  grace  of 
all  contours.  The  dark  eye  —  he  could  see  but  one 
—  was  soft  and  humid.  The  breast  heaved  quickly 
and  scarce  perceptibly.  This  was  the  immortal 
soul  with  whom  a  few  short  hours  previously  he  had 
been  playing  the  piano.  She  was  then  as  she  was 
now!  Nothing  had  since  happened  save  comment 
on  a  situation  already  existing.  And  yet  all  was 
changed!  At  supper  Lawrence  could  eat  with  her. 
And  now  her  mere  presence  affected  him  with  a 
paralysis,  simply  because  in  the  meantime  he  had 
put  her  offence  into  words. 

"I've  heard  a  good  deal  of  what  you've  been 
saying,"  said  Phyllis,  and  her  mellow  tones  de- 
scended on  the  room  and  its  occupants  like  an  even 
fall  of  snow.  "You  needn't  trouble  any  further, 
m  gomg. 

No  shame  for  her  eavesdropping!  Rather  a  pride 
in  it!  And  no  trace  of  feeling  in  her  voice.  She 
might  have  been  ordering  cakes  at  a  confectioner's. 
Were  her  eyes  afraid  or  defiant,  innocent  or  guilty, 


ON  THE  HILL  39 

cruel  or  compassionate?  Mark  could  not  tell.  An 
enigma!  A  woman  absolutely  enigmatic!  And 
yet,  he  reflected,  perhaps  not  more  so  than  any  other 
woman  in  her  stead  would  have  been!  The  wonder 
of  women  was  eternal,  indestructible,  universal.  One 
was  not  more  wondrous  than  another.  .  .  .  She 
hated  Lawrence,  this  Phyllis!  But  who  could  have 
guessed  it?  She  was  impure!  Who  could  have 
guessed  it?  Her  beauty  and  her  charm  were  un- 
impaired! They  were  triumphant.  The  pity  was 
that  they  had  been  wasted  on  Lawrence,  that  they 
had  meant  nothing  to  him.  What  an  incomparable 
mistress,  thought  Mark!  What  a  minister  of  love! 
What  a  jewel  to  light  the  leisure  of  a  busy, 
creative  career!  And  then  he  thought  of  Great- 
batch  as  a  gay,  fresh  schoolboy.  Life  was  really 
too  complex. 

Lawrence  at  last  turned  deliberately  to  the  fire, 
and  putting  his  elbows  on  the  mantelpiece  set  his 
eyes  doggedly  on  a  picture  over  the  fireplace. 

"Yes,  you  may  turn,"  said  Phyllis  quietly  and 
gently,  with  that  maddening  clearness  of  articulation. 
"You  may  turn.  Supposing  I  were  to  ask  you  about 
Annunciata  Fearns!" 

She  retreated,  deliberately.  Lawrence  did  not 
stir,  but  a  faint  distressing  smile  came  over  his 
pallid  features.  Mark  experienced  again  the  same 
excessive  discomfort  as  he  had  felt  when  Lawrence 


40  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

began  his  recital.  .  .  .  Annunciata  Fearns? 
What  did  the  introduction  of  that  name  import? 

But  Phyllis  was  leaving.  On  the  doormat  she 
paused,  and  twisting  her  head  she  addressed  Law- 
rence for  the  third  time,  quite  ignoring  Mark. 

"Why  you  can't  let  the  servant  do  her  work  and 
go  to  bed  I  can't  imagine!"  she  said.  "You've 
already  made  the  poor  girl  cry  with  your  rough 
words!     However " 

She  spoke  with  a  cold,  measured  censure,  and  she 
departed.  Mark  saw  her  prepare  to  open  the  front 
door,  every  movement  full  of  an  instinctive  grace. 
The  effort  which  she  made,  with  one  free,  slender 
gloved  hand,  to  pull  aside  the  old-fashioned  brass 
knob  was  too  much  for  him.  He  rushed  to  her. 
But  she  had  accomplished  it. 

"Where  are  you  going  to  —  at  this  hour  of  the 
night?"  he  asked  her  solicitously. 

Her  nostrils  twitched. 

"Is  that  any  business  of  yours?"  she  asked  icily. 

And  they  had  always  been  great  friends!  He  was 
shocked. 

The  next  thing  was  the  banging  of  the  door  —  not 
a  loud  bang  at  all,  as  soft  a  bang  as  the  mechanism 
of  the  door  permitted. 

When  Mark  went  into  the  dining-room,  Lawrence 
turned  toward  him  from  the  mantelpiece  and  gave  a 


ON  THE  HILL  41 

short  dry  laugh,  and  Mark  lowered  the  corner  of  his 
lips  to  indicate  to  Lawrence  his  opinion  that  women 
were  a  race  apart.  But  both  men  had  a  shame- 
faced look.  In  some  incomprehensible,  impossible 
way,  she  had  put  them  in  the  wrong.  She  had  left 
them  as  a  schoolmaster  might  have  left  a  couple  of 
young  sinners.  In  vain  they  made  faces  behind 
her  back.  It  was  mere  bravado,  and  each  knew 
it.  Each  was  intellectually  aware  of  his  absolute 
innocence,  and  yet  each  felt  guilty.  Of  what?  Of 
something  that  never  has  been  and  probably  never 
will  be  defined. 

Lawrence  scorned  to  tell  Mark  that  her  insinua- 
tion concerning  Fearns's  daughter  was  a  baseless 
insult  to  Annunciata  and  to  himself.  He  was  sure 
that  Mark  did  not  need  to  be  told.  Yet  he  could 
not  prevent  his  vocal  organs  from  uttering  the 
words: 

"What  she  was  driving  at  about  Annunciata 
Fearns  I'm  dashed  if  I  know!" 

His  brother's  sole  answer  was  to  emit  a  sound 
blowing  all  that  away. 

Mark  then,  in  silence,  crossed  the  hall  to  the 
drawing-room  and  lit  the  lamp  there.  The  man  of 
action  in  him  was  now  thoroughly  aroused,  and  very 
brave  in  the  absence  of  danger. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  asked  Lawrence,  follow- 
ing him. 


42  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

"Lighting  the  lamp,"  said  Mark.  "Come  in 
here.     Poke  that  fire  up. " 

And  he  proceeded  to  the  kitchen  door. 

"What's-your-name,"  he  said  very  kindly  to  the 
little  servant,  who  sprang  up  from  a  rush-bottomed 
chair,  "Mr.  Ridware  wants  you  to  clear  the  things 
away  at  once.  You  can  then  go  to  bed.  Better 
leave  the  washing-up  till  to-morrow.  But  we  shall 
want  breakfast  early." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Your  mistress  won't  come  back  to-night." 

"No,  sir." 

He  quitted  the  frightened  girl.  Lawrence,  who 
seemed  able  to  do  nothing  but  follow  him  to  and  fro, 
had  stood  in  the  hall  to  listen  to  him. 

"Then  you  mean  to  catch  that  early  train .^" 
Lawrence  complained,  in  the  drawing-room. 

"I  must,"  said  Mark.  "I'll  come  down 
again  in  a  day  or  two  if  you  like,  but  I've  got  an 
appointment  at  one  o'clock  to-morrow  I  simply 
can't  miss.  What  are  you  going  to  do  about 
living?" 

"About  living?     How?" 

"About  living,'^  Mark  Insisted.  "Are  you  going 
to  stay  here?  Or  what?  As  a  matter  of  fact  you 
can't  stay  here  alone  with  that  servant." 

"I  can  get  Cousin  Sarah  to  come,  till  something 
else  is  fixed  up. 


>> 


ON  THE  HILL  43 

"Yes.  Well,  you'd  better  go  and  see  her  to- 
morrow morning,"  Mark  advised. 

"All  right." 

"Don't  forget  it." 

"No,  I  sha'n't  forget.     Of  course  I  sha'n't  forget." 

Suddenly  they  heard  the  rattling  of  plates  in  the 
dining-room.  Mark  shut  the  door  hastily,  and  then 
they  sat  silent  for  a  long  while. 

"Where  will  Phyllis  have  gone  to.?"  Mark  asked. 

Lawrence  shook  his  head.  ^ 

"That's  more  than  I  know,"  he  said.  And 
without  warning  or  exclamation  he  walked  quickly 
out  of  the  drawing-room,  and  Mark  heard  the  front- 
door open.  Mark  made  an  aimless  perambulation 
of  the  room,  and  picked  up  the  newspaper  from  the 
piano,  and  read  through  the  money-article,  which 
had  neither  interest  nor  meaning  for  him. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  which  Lawrence 
had  left  open. 

"I'm  going  to  bed  now,  sir,"  said  the  servant. 

"Very  well,"  said  Mark  benevolently.  "What 
is  your  name.?" 

"Maggie,  sir." 

"Well,  Maggie,  here."  And  he  extended  his 
hand  and  gave  her  a  shilling.  "You'll  re- 
member to  be  up  early  in  the  morning,  won't 
you.?  We  must  have  breakfast  at  eight,  not  a 
second   later." 


44  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

"Oh,  thank  you,  sir.  Yes,  sir.  Eight  o'clock 
sir.     Good  night,  sir." 

"Good  night,  Maggie." 

As  Lawrence  did  not  return,  Mark  decided  to  go 
outside  to  find  him.  A  wild  thought  that  Lawrence 
might  be  seeking  to  commit  suicide  shot  through  his 
brain  and  was  gone.  It  would  be  ridiculous  to  com- 
mit suicide  for  a  woman  who  for  years  had  been  noth- 
ing to  you,  and  who  hated  you!  Besides,  they  were 
Ridwares!  Nevertheless,  the  perception  that  they 
had  reached  that  evening  the  far-off  emotional  plane 
on  which  suicide  became  conceivable  startled  him. 

Outside,  the  night  was  mild  and  strangely  tran- 
quil. In  the  vast  deep  purple  canopy  of  the  sky, 
stretching  in  one  mighty  unbroken  sweep  from  hori- 
zon to  horizon,  all  the  uncountable  stars  glittered 
according  to  their  magnitudes  and  their  colours, 
calm,  cold,  and  subjugating.  The  distant  hills 
formed  a  circle  whose  uneven  rim  was  plainly  out- 
lined against  the  borders  of  heaven.  Here  and 
there,  in  the  direction  of  Dun  Cow,  and  over  toward 
Sneyd,  the  reddish  furnace  fires  of  earth  put  out  the 
lower  stars.  And,  down  below,  the  illuminated  towers 
and  spires  of  town  halls  and  churches  kept  their 
nocturnal  watch  over  the  Five  Towns  silent  and 
reposeful  in  sleep.  Not  a  sound  disturbed  the 
immense  stillness,  save  an  occasional  dull  roar  from 
the  inferno  of  Cauldon  Bar  Ironworks. 


ON  THE  HILL  45 

And  leaning  against  the  field  fence  across  the  road 
was  the  solitary  figure  of  Lawrence,  hatless.  Down 
that  road  Phyllis  had  lately  vanished,  to  lose  herself 
amid  the  sleeping  hosts  of  the  valley. 

''Lawrence!"  Mark  called  in  a  low  voice.  There 
was  no  reply.  "How  terrible  life  is!"  thought 
Mark,  shuddering,  while  the  beauty  that  spread 
before  him  made  the  tears  start  to  his  eyes.  And 
he  called  again:  "Lawrence!" 

"I'm  coming,"  came  his  brother's  voice  gruffly 
from  the  road. 

And  Lawrence  sauntered  into  the  house. 

"Better  go  to  bed,  eh?"  Mark  suggested. 

"What's  the  use  of  going  to  bed?    I  sha'n't  sleep." 

"Take  a  sedative." 

"Haven't  got  a  sedative." 

"No.     But  I  have." 

"What  are  you  doing  with  sedatives?" 

"I  went  up  to  Edinburgh  last  week  by  the  night 
train,  and  I  always  take  a  sedative  when  I  travel 
at  night.  The  tabloids  have  been  in  this  pocket 
ever  since."  He  produced  a  small  phial  from  his 
waistcoat  pocket. 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Lawrence.  "I  don't  deal 
in  sedatives." 

Mark  paused. 

"Well,  shut  the  door,  anyway.  ...  Is  there 
any  milk  in  the  house?" 


46  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

"I  don't  know.     I'll  have  a  look  if  you  like." 

They  lighted  a  candle  and  blundered  side  by  side 
into  the  unfamiliar  region  of  the  kitchen.  They 
had  the  ground  floor  of  the  house  to  themselves; 
there  was  no  woman  spying  to  laugh  at  their  gro- 
tesque efforts  to  find  that  milk  in  the  shadowed  and 
mysterious  kitchen.  They  looked  high  and  low, 
in  cupboards  and  on  dressers,  and  they  found  every- 
thing from  lamp  oil  to  cold  tea,  but  no  milk. 
Ultimately  Mark  was  happily  inspired  to  search  the 
larder,  and  in  the  whitewashed  larder,  on  a  deal 
shelf,  amid  cold  beef  and  pieces  of  bread  and 
eggs  and  butter  and  half  a  tart,  they  discovered 
a  jug  containing  milk. 

"Now  where  are  the  saucepans.''"  Mark 
demanded. 

And  their  eyes  ranged  over  walls  in  quest  of 
saucepans. 

"Enamelled,"  said  Mark. 

The  enamelled  saucepan  was  secured,  and  with  a 
tumbler,  the  milk-jug  and  the  saucepan,  the  brothers 
formed  an  absurd  and  forlorn  procession  through  the 
woman-deserted  house  to  the  drawing-room,  where 
Mark  with  various  precautions  put  the  milk  on  to  boil. 

"It'll  boil  over  before  you  know  where  you  are," 
said  Lawrence. 

"It  won't,"  said  Mark.  "Do  you  suppose  I 
can't  boil  milk.?" 


ON  THE  HILL  47 

And  it  did  not.  Mark  neatly  caught  it  in  the 
very  act  of  bubbling  and  lifted  it  off. 

"These  things  are  always  better  if  you  drink  hot 
milk  after  them,"  said  Mark. 

"What  things?" 

"These  tabloids."     He  produced  the  tabloids. 

"You're  going  to  take  some?"  Lawrence  ques- 
tioned with  a  slightly  sarcastic  air. 

"YeSj  and  so  are  you,  my  boy!  Where  on  earth 
is  the  sense  of  having  a  sleepless  night  if  you  can 
avoid  it?  You're  so  confoundedly  conventional 
in  your  notions.  You're  like  some  people  I  know 
who  won't  play  cards  at  all  for  fear  the  habit  should 
grow  on  them.  Here.  Chew  up  these  three  quick, 
and  drink  half  the  milk." 

With  a  gesture  of  protest,  Lawrence  complied. 
And  standing  in  the  drawing-room  they  solemnly 
masticated  the  tabloids  and  drank  what  milk  they 
did  not  spill  on  the  hearth. 

Then  they  went  upstairs,  with  one  candle,  having 
extinguished  the  lights.  In  Lawrence's  bedroom 
was  an  extra  bed,  which  Phyllis  had  prepared.  The 
clothes  were  turned  down,  and  a  night-shirt  of  Law- 
rence's spread  out. 

"Want  anything  to  read?"  Lawrence  asked,  as 
they  were  undressing. 
What  have  you  got?" 
Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Lawrence.     There  were 


(( ' 


48  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

many  books  in  the  room.  "Seen  that?"  He 
picked  up  a  volume  from  a  chair,  A  Book  for  a  Rainy 
Day^  and  handed  it  to  Mark. 

"What's  this?"  Mark  glanced  at  the  title-page. 

"You  don't  know  about  it?"  Lawrence  seemed 
loftily  surprised.  "Have  a  look  at  it.  What 
puzzles  me  is  why  it's  only  just  been  reprinted.  It 
ought  to  have  been  reprinted  years  ago.  Dip  into 
it  anywhere.     It's  a  bed  book." 

At  the  head  of  each  bed  was  a  candle  In  a  socket. 
Both  Lawrence  and  Mark  had  read  in  bed  every 
night  of  their  lives  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and 
the  candles  were  so  devised  that  they  could  be 
blown  out  without  raising  the  head  from  the  pillow. 

And  presently,  after  Mark  had  carefully  folded 
his  trousers  in  their  original  creases  and  put  them 
under  the  mattress  to  press,  these  two  men  aged 
thirty-eight  and  thirty-five,  one  rather  gross  and 
the  other  with  graying  hair,  lay  side  by  side  in 
their  beds  each  with  a  book  and  a  candle,  amor- 
phous masses  of  humanity  under  the  clothes.  Not 
perhaps  a  spectacle  of  ideal  romantic  loveliness! 
But  there  is  something  about  them  that  touches 
me  profoundly.  And  first  Mark  blew  out  his  candle, 
which  burnt  red  an  instant  and  expired,  and  then 
Lawrence  did  the  same.  And  there  was  a  vague 
shuffling,  and  then  silence  in  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  II 


rogues'  alley 


THANKS  to  Mark's  obstinacy,  Lawrence  had 
six  and  a  half  hours'  sleep  that  night, 
and  in  the  morning  the  relentless  Mark 
forced  him  to  acknowledge  that  he  had  done  well 
to  take  the  sedative.  He  found  himself  in  the  stern 
managerial  hands  of  Mark,  whose  instinct  toward 
being  practical  seemed  only  to  have  been  sharpened 
by  the  sedative.  Mark  arose  early,  and  Mark 
called  the  servant,  and  Mark  superintended  the 
praeprandial  labours  of  the  servant,  and  Mark  com- 
posed the  menu  of  the  breakfast  with  one  eye  on 
the  larder  and  the  other  on  the  progress  of  the 
kitchen  fire.  Unhappily,  owing  to  the  nocturnal 
orgy  of  milk,  the  menu  had  to  be  composed  without 
milk,  for  the  milkman  did  not  arrive  in  those  alti- 
tudes until  after  eight  o'clock.  Mark  told  Law- 
rence exactly  when  he  must  get  up;  his  organizing 
skill  did  not  disdain  to  scheme  the  due  cleaning  of 
boots;  and  when  breakfast  was  over  he  took  out  his 
watch  and  informed  Lawrence  that  they  must  be 
ready  to  start  in  five  minutes. 

49 


50  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

By  such  precautions  there  was  no  undignified 
hurry,  no  unhealthy  haste.  They  walked  in  com- 
fort down  the  long  hillside  to  Bleakridge  Station. 
And  Lawrence  perceived  that  a  new  day  had  dawned 
over  the  Five  Towns,  and  the  calm  indifference 
of  nature  struck  him  like  a  revelation.  It  seemed 
a  year  since  the  previous  morning,  but  the  sun  had 
counted  only  his  usual  twenty-four  hours,  and  was 
refusing,  pleasantly  yet  firmly,  to  admit  that  any- 
thing worthy  of  special  notice  had  occurred.  And 
they  got  into  the  Loop  Line  train  for  Knype,  Mark 
having  looked  and  found  an  empty  compartment. 
They  scarcely  talked  at  all;  each  appeared  to  be 
meditative,  and  even  shy;  they  were  tongue-tied; 
and  moreover  there  was  nothing  really  useful  to 
say.  So  they  sat  face  to  face,  yawning  occasionally 
from  the  effects  of  the  sedative.  Then  the  train 
threw  them  out  on  to  Knype  platform  at  nine 
twenty. 

Knype  is  no  mean  railway-station.  It  is  the 
head-quarters  of  a  local  railway  company  with  a 
capital  of  over  ten  millions  of  money,  a  gross  income 
of  nearly  a  million,  and  a  permanent  way  of  two 
hundred  miles  —  a  steady  four  per  cent.  line.  Over 
two  hundred  trains  a  day  passed  through  Knype, 
and  between  five  and  fifty  thousand  passengers; 
not  one  train  offers  to  the  Five  Town«  the  insult 
of  not  stopping  there.     These  facts   speak.     And 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  51 

the  Five  Towns  always  observe  with  haughty  satis- 
faction that  the  local  company  takes  its  place  natur- 
ally among  the  "principal"  companies  of  the  United 
Kingdom.  Now  the  lordly  up-platform  of  Knype 
is  at  its  best  between  nine-twenty  and  nine-forty  in 
the  morning,  for  at  the  latter  instant  of  time  the 
Manchester  to  London  corridor  express,  having 
paused  five  minutes  alongside,  steams  out  while 
porters  cry  proudly:  "Next  stop  Euston!"  The 
worlds  of  pleasure  and  of  business  meet  on  that 
platform  to  await  the  great  train  with  its  two  engines. 
The  spacious  pavement  is  crowded  with  the  correct- 
ness of  travelling  suits  and  suit-cases;  it  is  alive 
with  the  spurious  calm  of  those  who  are  about  to 
travel  and  to  whom  travelling  is  an  everyday  trifle. 
"Going  up  to  the  village?"  the  wits  ask,  and  are 
answered  by  nods  in  a  fashion  to  indicate  that 
going  up  to  the  village  Is  a  supreme  bore.  And  yet 
beneath  all  this  weary  satiety  there  lurks  in  each 
demeanour  a  suppressed  anticipatory  eagerness,  a 
consciousness  of  vast  enterprise,  that  would  not  be 
unsuitable  If  the  London  train  were  a  caravan 
setting  forth  to  Bagdad.  You  can  see  Bagdad 
written  on  the  foreheads  of  even  those  weary  second- 
class  season-ticket  holders  who  go  first-class  by 
arrangement  with  the  Grand  Vizier  of  the  train, 
and,  bridge-despisers,  play  solo  whist  for  a  hundred 
and  forty-six  miles. 


52  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

Into  this  crowd  Lawrence  descended  with  the 
illusion  that  everybody  was  staring  at  him  curiously. 
He  blushed  when  acquaintances  addressed  him, 
and  replied  gruffly,  almost  fiercely.  Mark  had  to 
behave  otherwise.  Mark,  though  far  from  being 
the  richest,  was  the  most  distinguished  person  on 
the  platform.  Mark  felt  it,  and  the  broader-minded 
people  felt  it.  Consequently  Mark  had  to  practise 
all  his  natural  affability,  as  much  to  commercial 
travellers  who  had  been  his  schoolfellows  as  to 
magnates  who  could  have  given  him  a  thousand 
guineas  for  a  portrait  without  incommoding  them- 
selves in  the  least.  At  the  same  time,  he  had  to 
avoid  making  a  companion  for  the  journey,  for  he 
was  exceedingly  fastidious  in  the  choice  of  travel- 
ling companions.  His  role  demanded  the  nicest 
tact,  but  he  was  equal  to  it.  The  brothers  stuck 
close  together,  full  of  Lawrence's  woe  and  of  their 
unspoken  affection,  and  after  Mark  had  flung  down 
a  penny  for  the  Manchester  Guardian,  they  began 
to  discuss  the  contents  of  Smith's  book  stall  with 
the  enlightened  severity  of  genuine  bookmen  and 
impassioned  readers,  and  in  this  pleasing  exercise 
of  exact  valuation  they  grew  quite  talkative  and  were 
surprised  when  the  express  rolled  grandiosely  in. 

"Well,  you'll  send  me  a  line,  eh?"  said  Mark, 
as  they  struggled  through  the  prosperous  mob 
assaulting  the  train. 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  53 

"Yes,"  said  Lawrence. 

"Might  send  a  line  to-night  —  if  anything  hap- 
pens.    Let  me  hear,  anyhow." 

"All  right,"  said  Lawrence. 

"And  look  here  —  I'll  come  down  again  at  the 
week-end." 

"I  wish  to  God  you  would!"  Lawrence  replied 
earnestly,  shaking  hands. 

"I  will.     Saturday  afternoon.     Ta,  ta." 

Mark  climbed  up  into  a  carriage,  and  stood  there, 
slightly  conscious  of  his  distinction,  with  the  Man- 
chester Guardian  and  J  Book  for  a  Rainy  Day 
under  his  arm.  And  the  train  gradually  swallowed 
up  the  elite  of  the  crowd. 

"Going  to  lunch  on  board?"  asked  Lawrence. 

"No.  I'm  lunching  at  the  Continental  at  one,'* 
Mark  answered. 

It  was  the  first  hint  he  had  given  to  explain  the 
absolute  necessity  of  his  departure  by  that  train. 
After  a  moment  he  winked.  Lawrence,  however, 
ignored  the  wink.     Mark's  tact  had  failed  him. 

"  I'll  give  you  that  book  if  you  like,"  said  Lawrence 
moved  by  a  sudden  impulse. 

"I'm    enchanted.     "Well "     He    waved    a 

gloved  hand. 

They  nodded  to  each  other  sternly,  without  a 
smile,  as  the  carriage  began  to  slide  away. 
-    At  Knype  the  train  leaves  behind  its  tail,  which 


54  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

grows  a  new  head  like  the  fabled  snake,  and  rushes 
off  to  Birmingham  with  a  minor  grandiosity  of  its 
own.  Just  as  Lawrence  was  slowly  quitting  the 
station  he  saw  a  woman  hurry  out  of  the  booking- 
office  and  across  the  platform  —  a  well-dressed 
woman  of  forty  or  so,  rather  stout,  obviously  the 
mother  of  a  family,  with  a  kind,  melancholy,  sen- 
sible, maternal  face.  She  got  into  the  Birming- 
ham train  and  sat  down  breathless,  and  then  rose 
again  to  arrange  her  skirts.  Lawrence,  after  hesi- 
tating, went  to  the  carriage  window. 

"Good  morning,  Mrs.  Fearns,"  he  attracted  her 
attention,  saluting.  "Are  you  all  right?  Can  I 
do  anything  for  you.'"' 

She  turned  quickly,  and  the  maternal  face,  beam- 
ing, broke  into  a  beautiful  smile. 

"Oh!  Mr.  Ridware!"  she  exclaimed.  "It's  very 
good  of  you.     I  think  I'm  all  right,  thanks." 

"Travelling  alone.'"' 

"Yes,  and  I  do  so  hate  it.  I'm  going  to  see  my 
sister  in  Birmingham.     She's  ill!" 

"Nothing  serious.^" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Fearns  gravely. 
"That's  what  I  have  to  find  out." 

The  guard  whistled  and  waved. 

"Let's  hope  not,"  said  Lawrence. 

"Yes.  Good  morning!  And  thanks  so  much 
for  looking  after  me." 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  55 

She  bowed  twice,  and  he  uncovered,  with  a  depre- 
cating gesture.  In  a  few  seconds  the  platform  was 
deserted. 

It  was  astonishing  how  this  banal  dialogue 
remained  in  his  sick  and  tortured  mind,  like  some- 
thing gracious,  healing,  and  divine.  He  admired 
Mrs.  Fearns  very  much.  Her  personality  seemed 
always  to  radiate  kindliness,  her  face  denied  the 
very  existence  of  evil  and  transformed  the  world. 
As  what  Midas  touched  was  turned  to  gold,  so  what 
her  honest  eyes  dwelt  on  was  turned  to  good. 
Such  women  exist.  Lawrence  reflected  for  the 
thousandth  time  that  Fearns  was  unworthy  of  his 
wife.  Fearns's  conduct,  indeed,  was  inexplicable 
—  simply  inexplicable  —  for  Fearns  was  not  a 
fool,  nor  a  brute.  If  he,  Lawrence,  could  have  had 
such  a  wife,  instead  of  Phyllis,  how  he  would  have 
cherished  and  enfolded  her  and  made  her  existence 
heaven  itself!     An  infinite  regret  surged  over  him. 

And  as  he  walked  slowly  up  the  broad  Knype 
road  to  Hanbridge,  past  the  new  park  and  the 
cemetery,  and  past  the  houses  of  the  comfortable 
and  the  aristocratic  earthenware  manufactories 
with  names  of  world-wide  celebrity  across  their 
gates  (In  one  of  them  his  father  had  fulfilled  an 
honourable  commercial  destijiy),  and  while  electric 
cars  shot  to  and  fro,  and  carts  cheerfully  rattled 


S6  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

and  heavy  wagons  groaned,  and  the  populace  went 
its  ways,  his  bitter  thoughts  began  to  range  over  the 
years  of  his  marriage  like  lost  spirits  over  a  field 
of  disaster. 

He  had  heard  of  Phyllis  for  a  year  or  two  before 
he  met  her  by  accident  in  London  in  the  studio  of 
a  friend  of  Mark's.  She  was  the  daughter  of  an 
architect  at  Hanbridge,  and  when  quite  young  had 
acquired  a  vague  reputation  for  being  out  of  the 
common.  She  had  become  a  schoolmistress  because 
she  had  theories  about  education,  not  in  order  to 
earn  her  living.  Then,  on  the  slightest  resources, 
she  had  gone  to  London  to  study  education.  In 
the  studio  she  had  impressed  Lawrence  at  once. 
She  was  well  dressed  in  a  bluish-green  colour  and 
she  had  a  bluish-green  parasol  exactly  to  match. 
She  was  very  self-possessed;  she  had  her  strange 
mysterious  smile;  she  put  Lawrence  at  his  ease  in 
the  difficult  studio;  she  listened  to  him  with  atten- 
tion. It  seemed  extraordinary  to  Lawrence  that 
she  should  be  a  product  of  the  Five  Towns.  He 
quitted  the  studio  with  regret.  Then  Mark  raved 
of  her  beauty  and  Mark  said  she  was  a  remarkable 
woman.  Then  Lawrence,  thus  encouraged,  defined 
to  himself  the  feeling  that  lay  in  the  depth  of  his 
mind.  He  put  it:  "I've  never  met  a  girl  like  that 
before."  What  he  meant  was:  "There  is  some- 
thing   about  that  girl  which    makes    her    unique 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  57 

among  her  sex."  He  honestly  believed  that  he 
had  been  regarding  Phyllis  with  a  clear,  cold,  unprej- 
udiced eye,  and  that  nature  had  indeed  singled 
her  out  to  be  the  recipient  of  supreme  feminine 
qualities.  He  was  convinced  that  the  first  celibate 
great  poet  or  musician  who  happened  on  Phyllis 
would  carry  her  off  and  marry  her.  Then  he  re- 
turned to  the  Five  Towns.  He  did  not  expect  to 
see  her  again,  and  he  saw  her  again  within  a  fort- 
night, in  Hanbridge.  Her  father  had  died;  she  had 
come  home  to  be  a  daughter  to  her  mother.  She 
was  in  mourning,  seriously  cheerful,  quiet,  self- 
possessed,  equal  to  the  occasion,  with  the  mysterious 
smile  more  wondrous  than  ever  under  her  black  hat. 
She  asked  him  to  call  and  see  her;  she  said  she  was 
sure  her  mother  would  be  delighted  to  see  him.  He 
did  not,  perhaps,  care  for  her  quite  so  much  at  that 
interview  in  the  street;  infinitesimal  traces  of  the 
Five  Towns  showed  themselves  in  her;  but  he  still 
admired  her  enormously. 

He  called,  with  a  peculiar  mixture  of  reluct- 
ance and  eagerness.  He  liked  Mrs.  Capewell. 
He  liked  Phyllis's  way  of  serving  the  tea.  The 
scheme  of  marrying  Phyllis  appeared  inconceiv- 
able.    She  was  destined  for  great  poets.     She  would 


never     .     .     .     no! 


One  day  Mrs.  Capewell,  talking  to  him  with  de- 
lightful intimacy,  told  him  that  Phyllis  had  once 


58  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

been  engaged  to  Greatbatch,  and  that  the  breaking- 
off  of  the  match  was  one  of  poor  Phyllis's  reasons 
for  going  to  London.  Lawrence,  characteristically, 
had  contrived  to  live  in  the  Five  Towns  during  those 
years  without  hearing  a  word  of  such  an  engagement. 
It  shocked  him;  Phyllis  had  kissed  Greatbatch! 
He  recovered;  she  helped  him.  The  scheme  of 
marrying  her  seemed  now  just  wildly  conceivable. 
He  spent  a  year  in  resolving  to  propose  to  her. 
He  was  ill  with  excitement  for  two  days  before  he 
did  it,  and  could  neither  sleep  nor  assimilate  his 
food.  She  asked  him  gently  what  was  the  matter 
with  him,  and  he  informed  her,  nearly  fainting. 
He  was  that  sort  of  man.  He  also  informed  her 
of  the  secret  history  of  his  parents,  as  related  to 
him  by  his  father  long  after  his  mother's  death. 
Mrs.  Capewell  and  Mark  were  quite  foolishly  joyous 
over  the  engagment,  and  the  fact  of  its  existence 
put  a  strain  on  Lawrence's  powers  of  belief.  Why 
should  this  astounding  happiness  have  occurred 
to  him.''  There  was  only  one  Phyllis  in  the  world, 
and  he  had  got  her!  Luck,  undeserved  luck! 
In  brief,  Lawrence's  case  did  not  differ  in  any 
material  way  from  that  of  the  lover  in  the  average 
English  romantic  engagement. 

They  were  married. 

Lawrence  had  no  experience  whatever  of  women, 
and  all  the  innumerable  books  he  had  read  had 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  59 

taught  him  nothing.  He  married  as  a  child  picks 
up  a  razor.  The  first  thing  that  startled  him  was 
the  tone  in  which  Phyllis  said  that  her  mother  should 
not  live  with  them.  Though  Lawrence  himself 
was  quite  prepared  to  admit  Mrs.  Capewell  to  their 
household,  and  though  he  was  somewhat  surprised 
at  Phyllis's  objection,  he  perfectly  recognized  her 
right  of  veto;  what  startled  him  was  the  suddenly 
hard,  curt  voice  that  exercised  the  veto.  That 
voice  showed  him  another  Phyllis  in  a  single  flash. 
In  three  months  he  perceived  with  dismay  that  the 
ecstasy  of  the  honeymoon  was  dissipated  —  he 
knew  not  how!  He  was  capable  of  being  bored  by 
Phyllis.  Then  they  had  a  quarrel.  It  was  about 
nothing;  its  pettiness  humiliated  Lawrence;  but  the 
thing  happened  one  morning  on  waking  up,  when 
Lawrence's  nerves  were  in  a  delicate  condition: 
he  was  a  bad  sleeper;  Phyllis  slept  like  a  log.  He 
went  to  the  office  and  did  no  work  at  all,  his  mind 
preoccupied  by  this  terrible  schism.  Undoubtedly 
right  was  on  his  side;  he  knew  it;  and  he  had  a 
passion  for  justice,  also  considerable  self-respect. 
By  the  time  he  returned  home  he  had  arranged  all 
the  arguments  by  which  he  should  convince  Phyllis 
that  her  conduct  had  not  been  entirely  justifiable; 
he  had  a  persuasive  answer  to  anything  she  could 
possibly  say.  During  supper  he  broke  the  silence 
which  had  begun  before  breakfast.     She  flew  at  him. 


6o  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

•f 

She  strangled  his  sentences.  Instead  of  artfully 
indicating  a  compromise,  she  consolidated  her  po- 
sition and  made  a  reconciliation  doubly  difficult. 
The  way  that  woman  ignored  the  common  rules  and 
decencies  of  debate  shocked  Lawrence,  and  he 
learned  more  concerning  women  in  ten  minutes 
than  all  his  previous  life  had  taught  him.  She  had 
no  sense  of  logic  nor  of  justice;  she  misquoted  him; 
she  misrepresented  him;  she  dragged  in  a  thousand 
matters  quite  irrelevant  to  the  subject  in  hand. 
Lawrence  recovered  from  his  shock  and  became 
really  angry.  When  roused  he  was  himself  alarming. 
He  beat  down  her  defences  one  by  one;  by  dint  of 
repeating  the  same  phrases  fifty  times  he  forced  her 
into  a  muteness  which  was  at  any  rate  not  a  denial 
of  the  truth.  Then,  perceiving  his  advantage, 
he  grew  magnificently  calm;  he  adopted  a  firmer 
attitude,  and  swore  in  his  heart  that  she  should 
express  to  him  some  sort  of  regret;  after  all,  he  could 
manage  a  woman.  At  length,  with  the  most  tactful 
precautions,  he  let  out  the  word  "regret."  And 
in  an  instant  he  had  lost  everything,  and  was 
obliged  to  start  again.  That  he  did  start  again  was 
a  tribute  to  his  chin.  A  second  time  he  beat  down 
her  defences,  new  and  original  defences;  and  a  se- 
cond time  he  was  loosing  the  word  **regret"  when 
suddenly  in  the  very  middle  of  one  of  her  own  bitter, 
cruel,  scowling  responses,  she  stopped  short,  and, 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  6i 

putting  out  her  hand  across  the  table,  touched  his. 
"Great  stupid!"  she  said  in  a  voice  utterly  win- 
ning and  adorable,  and  with  the  pristine  mysterious 
charm  of  her  old  smile.  It  was  not  the  same 
woman!     The  quarrel  was  over. 

The  quarrel  was  over,  but  the  question  had  not 
been  settled  according  to  the  rules  of  debate. 
Justice  had  not  triumphed;  reason  had  not  tri- 
umphed. Lawrence  felt  that  he  had  been  taken  by 
surprise.  He  was  much  relieved  to  have  peace, 
and  yet  he  was  conscious  of  a  moral  cowardice 
in  not  offering  a  final  calm,  kindly  statement  of 
his  case.  The  sense  of  humiliation  did  not  leave 
him,  nor  a  certain  resentment  against  Phyllis,  even 
in  kissing  her.  As  for  Phyllis,  in  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  she  seemed  to  have  completely  forgotten 
the  quarrel.  Gradually  Lawrence  resumed  the 
dominion  of  his  soul.  He  too  endeavoured  to  forget 
the  quarrel,  and  he  did  forget  it.  He  became  philo- 
sophic and  was  thankful  for  the  lessons  it  had  taught 
him.  He  knew  now  exactly  how  to  treat  Phyllis, 
and  how  to  avoid  future  quarrels.  The  secret  lay 
in  one's  tone,  he  said.  Phyllis  was  decidedly  an 
inferior  creature  (though  often  delightful),  and  she 
must  be  treated  as  such.  Useless  to  appeal  to 
her  reason,  to  her  sense  of  justice!  Useless  even 
to  appeal  to  her  good-nature!  She  was  not 
good-natured  —  this  was  the  dreadful  pill   he   had 


62  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

to  swallow.  She  must  be  humoured.  Yes,  he 
now  thoroughly  understood  women.  They  were  a 
disappointment  —  but  what  would  you  have."* 
Life  is  life.  People  are  born  as  they  are  born. 
Et  cetera. 

(And  she  had  had  theories  on  education,  she! 
Why,  she  possessed  no  exact  knowledge  about  any- 
thing! She  had  no  sense  of  perspective!  She  could 
not  co-ordinate  facts!  Her  taste  was  capricious  and 
unreliable.  Sometimes  she  talked  very  cleverly. 
But  that  could  not  justify  her  staggering  audacity 
in  having  dared  to  pose  about  education.) 

One  of  the  thousand  extraneous  matters  which 
Phyllis  had  imported  into  the  quarrel  was  an  accu- 
sation against  Lawrence  of  lack  of  enterprise. 
Soon  afterward  she  suggested  to  him,  very  deli- 
cately, that  he  ought  to  employ  his  small  fortune 
in  buying  a  partnership  in  some  firm  of  solicitors. 
She  had  previously  mentioned  the  idea,  as  a  possi- 
bility, during  their  honeymoon.  On  the  first  oc- 
casion he  had  merely  heard  it  and  forgotten;  it 
did  not  penetrate  to  the  seat  of  his  brain.  On  the 
second  occasion  he  had  realized  the  advisability  of 
treating  what  Phyllis  said  with  circumspection  and 
at  least  an  outward  deference.  He  therefore  replied 
that  the  idea  struck  him  as  one  worth  considering. 
And  it  did.  He  would  have  considered  it  till  dooms- 
day.    He    had    not   guessed,    then,    that   Phyllis's 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  63 

accusation  of  lack  of  enterprise  was  perfectly  well- 
founded.  He  thought  the  charge  absurd.  He  mis- 
took vacillation  for  prudence,  and  an  exaggerated 
estimate  of  risks  for  business  acumen.  He  was 
incapable  of  initiative,  a  dreamer,  a  meditator, 
with  a  soul  too  fine  for  ambition.  Whereas  the  key 
to  Phyllis's  character  was  ambition.  She  had 
meant  to  perform  miracles  with  Lawrence,  once 
she  had  got  him,  but  she  had  counted  without  his 
chin.  She  was  a  disappointed  woman.  Her  scheme 
for  buying  a  partnership  was  an  excellent  one. 
Lawrence  ought  certainly  to  have  adopted  it. 
But  his  nature  would  not  let  him  do  so.  Ten  loco- 
motives could  not  have  forced  him  up  the  hill  of 
the  undertaking.  His  wheels  slipped  round  in 
meditation  and  he  did  not  move. 

Several  times,  apropos  of  several  subjects,  he 
had  caught  the  sudden  sinister  change  in  Phyllis's 
voice  which  heralded  a  quarrel,  and  by  a  lavish 
use  of  tact  based  upon  his  complete  knowledge  of 
women,  he  had  avoided  a  quarrel.  And  then  one 
day,  in  response  to  something  she  said  in  that 
changed  voice,  something  inexcusable,  he  found 
himself  speaking  in  the  very  tone  which  he  knew  he 
must  not  employ.  In  spite  of  himself  he  was  defy- 
ing his  own  maxims.  The  experience  was  most 
curious  and  disagreeable,  and  as  it  were  unreal. 
If  he  was  angry,  it  was  with  a  cold  anger;  he  was 


64  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

decidedly  not  carried  away  by  temper.  A  pro- 
found instinct  rose  up  in  him  and  deliberately 
challenged  Phyllis.  In  two  seconds  the  quarrel 
existed  vigorously.  It  was  never  decently  settled 
and  despatched.  It  died  a  natural  death,  and 
became  like  diseased  meat  of  which  they  had 
both  eaten  and  which  was  poisoning  them.  After 
a  time  they  spoke  to  each  other  as  usual;  they 
had  moments  of  placid  gaiety.  But  in  Lawrence 
was  the  sick  consciousness  that  things  could  never 
be  the  same  again,  and  that  their  mutual  life 
was  a  pretence. 

He  could  not  imagine  what  he  had  ever  seen  in 
Phyllis  to  attract  him.  The  faults  of  her  character 
were  so  glaring  to  him  that  he  accused  himself  of 
stupidity  for  not  having  perceived  them  at  the 
first  glance  at  her.  Where  was  the  strange  charm 
which  once  had  seduced  him.''  Well,  occasionally, 
when  he  had  a  glimpse  of  her  unexpectedly  at  a 
distance  in  the  street,  he  re-captured  that  strange 
charm  —  in  her  gestures,  her  attitude  —  and  in 
an  instant  it  was  gone! 

He  made  the  best  of  his  life.  He  had  vast  intel- 
lectual and  artistic  resources.  He  drew  on  them, 
and  not  in  vain.  Temperamentally  cold,  he  accus- 
tomed himself  to  the  secret  estrangement  which 
followed  on  a  third  quarrel  caused  by  her  tongue. 
He  was  a  man  of  the  finest  honour,  and  he  honour- 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  65 

ably  did  his  best  to  render  her  existence  tolerable. 
He  yielded  in  disputes  far  more  often  than  his  sense 
of  justice  could  approve.  But  he  forgot  that  she, 
the  creature  whom  he  could  not  treat  as  an  equal, 
had  not  his  interior  resources,  and  it  did  not  occur 
to  him  that  she  was  not  temperamentally  cold. 
He  never  so  much  as  suspected  that  he  had  inno- 
cently ruined  her  life.  So  they  became  superfluous 
to   each   other. 

Such,  in  brief  outline,  was  the  history  of  the 
birth  and  death  of  the  divine  illusion  called  love  in 
their  hearts. 

f.  The  monstrous  revelation  of  the  last  twenty-four 
hours  nauseated,  wounded,  and  appalled  Lawrence. 
He  was  by  no  means  a  conventional  person,  and  yet 
he  could  not  regard  Phyllis's  conduct  in  other 
than  a  conventional  light.  He  could  not  go  behind 
the  words  impure,  disloyal,  deceitful.  He  could 
not  attempt  an  impartial  enquiry  into  her  defection. 
He  could  not  seek  an  explanation  of  it  in  the  noto- 
rious weakness  of  human  nature.  Even  to  think  of 
it  gave  him  ineffable  torture.  He  was  one  great 
bleeding  resentment,  that  thrust  instinctively  away 
the  horrible  cause  of  its  injury.  He  hated  .and 
loathed  Phyllis  with  an  intensity  surpassing  tenfold 
the  intensity  of  any  feeling  he  had  ever  before 
experienced.  His  love  for  her  had  been  nothing 
to   this   hate,    this    loathing,    this    rancorous    and 


66  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

ruthless  contempt.  He  spat  out  a  "Bah!"  in  a 
voice  that  might  have  blasted  her  like  lightning. 
On  Greatbatch  his  mind  did  not  dwell.  Great- 
batch  was  a  dog  to  kick  soundly  and  to  dis- 
miss. But  Phyllis,  his  wife,  .  .  .  !  He 
wondered  how  her  poor  mother  would  survive  the 
daughter's  infamy. 

Long  before  he  wished  to  be  there  he  had  arrived 
in  Holborn,  the  principal  thoroughfare  of  Hanbridge, 
that  local  metropolis  which  has  amused  itself  by 
imitating  London  in  the  nomenclature  of  its  noisy 
streets.  At  the  corner  of  Holborn  and  Chancery 
Lane  where  strangely  enough  are  to  be  found  legal 
offices,  money-lending  offices,  and  insurance  offices, 
stands  the  shop  of  Brough  the  bookseller,  stationer, 
and  artist's  colourman.  Brough  called  himself 
principally  a  bookseller,  but  his  business  in  literature 
was  almost  negligible,  the  demand  for  books  in  the 
Five  Towns  being  inferior  to  any  other  demand 
whatsoever.  Lawrence  generally  had  a  volume 
on  order  at  Brough's,  and  Brough  respected  him 
deeply,  in  that  his  regular  custom,  though  barely 
profitable,  gave  dignity  to  Brough  and  to  the  shop. 
While  Lawrence  patronized  Brough's,  it  could  not 
and  should  not  be  said  that  the  Five  Towns  was 
unliterary.  A  book  was  due  for  Lawrence  that 
morning.  Should  he  enter  and  get  Itf  Like  all 
bookmen,  he  suffered  keenly  from  unsatisfied  desire 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  67 

between  the  moment  of  ordering  a  book  and  the 
moment  of  handling  it.  Nevertheless  it  seemed 
uncanny  to  him  that  he  should  desire  so  trifling  a 
thing  as  a  book  that  morning;  it  seemed  sacrilegious. 
He  was  still  unaware  that  books  had  become  his 
life,  his  unique  and  overmastering  passion;  he  was 
still  unaware  of  the  tremendous  formative  influence 
of  habitual  indulgence.  He  went  into  the  shop, 
which  was  fresh  from  its  daily  toilette,  and  which, 
with  its  elaborate  crowded  display  of  sentimental 
coloured  prints  in  gilt  frames,  almanacs,  pocket- 
books,  ladies'  purses,  picture  postcards,  fountain 
pens,  india-rubber  rings,  playing  cards,  writing 
paper,  drawing  pins,  and  colour  tubes,  bore  testi- 
mony to  the  high  state  of  luxurious  civilization  in 
the  Five  Towns.  Mr.  Brough,  a  white-haired  man 
with  a  thin  pale  face,  delicate  trembling  hands, 
and  a  narrow  black  necktie,  stood  behind  the  counter 
undoing  a  parcel  which  contained  ten  copies  of 
Meiklejohn's  School  Geography,  a  small  Wages 
Reckoner,  and  a  two-shilling  reprint  of  The  Little 
Flowers  of  Saint  Francis.  He  pushed  the  last 
across  the  counter  to  Lawrence  with  a  proud  smile, 
as  if  to  say:  "There!  you  see  how  you  may  rely 
on  me  to  statisfy  by  return  of  post  even  your  most 
singular  caprices!" 

*'Good!"  said  Lawrence,  with  unconscious  eager- 
ness, examining  the  book. 


68  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

And  Mr.  Brough  continued  to  disengage  examples 
of  Mieklejohn  from  the  parcel,  staring  the  while 
mildly  and  sadly  through  the  glass  door  into  the 
street.  He  could  have  performed  no  matter  what 
feat  while  staring  through  the  glass  door. 

Lawrence  placed  half  a  crown  on  the  counter, 
and  Mr.  Brough  with  his  slow  precise  movements 
offered  the  half-crown  to  the  cash  register,  which 
rang  and  yielded  sixpence  in  change. 

"Thanks,"  said  Lawrence,  taking  up  the  sixpence. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Ridware,"  said  Brough  cour- 
teously, and  he  emerged  from  behind  the  counter 
as  Lawrence  was  putting  the  book  into  his  pocket. 
How  is  your  dear  wife.'"'  he  added. 
My  wife!"  stammered  Lawrence. 

"It  is  quite  a  long  time  since  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  her,"  proceeded  Mr.  Brough,  with  even 
blandness.  "She  used  to  call  here  now  and  then. 
She  is  quite  well,  I  hope.''" 

"Yes,  thanks,"  stammered  Lawrence.  "Quite 
well."     He  was  blushing. 

"You  must  give  her  my  kind  regards,"  Mr. 
Brough  smiled,  opening  the  glass  door.  "Her 
father  and  I  were  old  frends.  Tell  her  I  say  she 
has  forsaken  me.     Will  you.''" 

"Yes,"  said  Lawrence.   "Certainly.   I'll  tell  her." 

He  slipped  out,  pretending  to  be  in  a  hurry. 
Oh!    The  shame,  the  misery,  the  anguish  of  such 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  69 

a  trivial  incident!  To  old  Brough  Phyllis  was  no 
doubt  an  ideal  figure,  standing  for  youth,  beauty, 
distinction,  goodness,  and  the  unattainable.  Old 
Brough  remembered  her  as  a  child.  Old  Brough 
had  perhaps  nursed  her  on  his  knee.  Why  had 
he  not  cried  out  to  Brough  the  odious  and  fearful 
truth,  instead  of  lying?  With  a  noise  in  his  ears  he 
hastened  up  Chancery  Lane  to  the  office. 

Chancery  Lane,  Hanbridge,  the  Lincoln's  Inn 
Fields  of  the  Five  Towns,  and  known  locally  as 
Rogues'  Alley,  is  a  sinister  little  street.  On  one 
side  of  it  is  the  blank  dark  red  wall  of  an  old- 
fashioned  manufactory,  and  on  the  other,  tightly 
packed  together,  are  mysterious  little  houses  which 
once  were  homes  and  which  are  now  kennels  where 
lurks  that  last  uncompromising  descendant  of  the 
Medes  and  Persians,  the  "legal  mind."  In  the  very 
midst  of  its  length  are  the  County  Court  Office  and 
the  local  Registry  of  the  High  Court  of  Justice  — 
dread  names,  names  of  fear!  The  houses,  since 
they  ceased  to  be  homes,  have  not  been  structurally 
altered,  but  in  certain  cases  swing-doors  have  been 
added  within  the  old  front  doors,  heaven  knows  why. 
The  front  doors,  from  nine  to  six,  are  kept  invitingly 
open,  and  drab  panels  lettered  in  black,  or  black 
panels  lettered  in  white,  afford  dim  clues  to  the 
mysteries   that   may   be   seen   within.     You   cross 


70  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

ragged  mats,  and  climb  sombre,  narrow,  naked, 
soiled  stairs,  and  push  tremblingly  against  portals 
of  ground  glass,  and  find  yourself  confronted  by 
one  or  two  young  men  with  short  shiny  sleeves, 
who  regard  you  suspiciously  from  behind  a  screen 
and  ink-stained  desks,  and  demand  your  name, 
and  write  your  name  in  a  book,  and  write  It  on  a 
piece  of  paper,  and  disappear  with  the  piece  of 
paper,  and  reappear,  and  with  a  peculiar  expression 
ask  you  to  sit  down.  You  obey  this  behest  on  a 
piece  of  wood,  or  on  nothing  encircled  by  ends  of 
cane;  and  when  your  eyes  have  become  accustomed 
to  the  obscurity  you  observe  through  the  interstices 
of  the  screen  a  fireplace  that  was  once  a  hearth,  and 
probably  a  window  that  was  once  the  object  of  a 
housewife's  pride.  In  due  season  you  are  told  to 
get  up  and  walk,  and  you  are  led  through  passages 
to  another  room,  equally  shabby,  bare,  dusty,  and 
forbidding,  and  there,  at  a  vast  desk,  in  an  arm- 
chair that  revolves  like  the  earth  on  its  axis,  sur- 
rounded by  all  the  evidences  of  poverty  and  decay, 
sits  a  human  being  who  probably  owns  a  beautiful 
house  and  beautiful  children  In  some  other  street 
and  boasts  of  pretty  taste  In  Chippendale.  You 
are  in  the  presence  of  an  incarnation  of  the  "legal 
mind."  So  it  was  —  and  so  it  is  to-day.  Step  out 
of  Holburn  (Hanbrldge)  into  Chancery  Lane,  (Han- 
bridge),  and  you  step  Into  the  Middle  Ages.     There 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  71 

are  offices  in  Chancery  Lane  where  the  typewriter 
clicks  not  nor  rings  its  bell,  because  the  type- 
writer is  "unprofessional."  Above  all  things  Chan- 
cery Lane  is  "professional."  Situated  in  the  heart 
of  a  district  inhabited  by  a  population  of  a  quarter 
of  a  million  which  gibes  openly  at  the  House  of 
Lords,  it  preserves  with  holy  and  rigorous  zeal 
the  sanctity  of  tradition. 

The  establishment  of  Charles  Fearns  comprised 
the  first  floor  of  a  typical  house  in  Chancery  Lane, 
three  rooms  in  all,  of  which  the  largest  was  divided 
into  two  by  a  wooden  partition,  one  portion  forming 
the  outer  or  inquiry  office  and  the  other  the  articled- 
clerks'  office;  the  next  room  was  Lawrence's,  and 
the  third  belonged  to  the  principal.  Except  for 
its  cleanliness,  a  somewhat  damp  cleanliness  in  the 
early  morning,  it  resembled  a  dozen  other  estab- 
lishments in  the  street.  Charles  Fearns  had  a 
passion  for  cleanliness.  He  in  fact  liked  comfort, 
and  had  he  not  been  overawed  by  the  toryism  of 
the  street  he  would  have  followed  a  fashion  recently 
set  up  in  the  more  modern  solicitors'  offices  in  the 
Old  Town  Hall,  and  treated  himself  to  a  Turkey 
carpet!  As  things  were,  he  had  stopped  short  at 
speaking-tubes  and  a  type-writer.  The  practice, 
which  had  been  started  by  his  father  in  the  late 
fifties,  was  a  sufficiently  flourishing  affair,  miscel- 
laneous   in    character.     Charles,    in   common  with 


72  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

most  solicitors,  imagined  himself  to  be  extremely 
business-like,  and  in  common  with  most  solicitors 
he  was  extremely  unbusiness-like.  He  had  immense 
energy,  good  judgment,  tact,  a  talent  for  diplo- 
macy, and  some  forensic  skill,  but  business-like  he 
was  not.  He  frequently  persuaded  himself  that  his 
office  was  run  with  the  precision  and  exactitude  of 
a  battleship;  perhaps  he  thought  that  occasional 
irate  outbursts  of  the  passion  for  efficiency  consti- 
tuted discipline. 

Lawrence  arrived  at  the  office  at  ten  minutes  past 
ten,  twenty-five  minutes  late.  The  office-boy, 
Gater,  who  was  supposed  to  begin  at  nine-thirty, 
was  only  just  opening  the  letter-files  to  start  his 
preliminary  duty  of  letter-filing.*  The"  shorthand 
and  engrossing  clerk,  a  middle-aged  fat  man  named 
Clowes,  was  reading  a  creased  and  dirty  copy  of 
the  Athletic  News.  These  two  inhabited  the  outer 
office. 

"Mr.  Fearns  come?"  demanded  Lawrence. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Gater. 

And  Clowes  folded  up  the  Athletic  News  with  a 
deliberation  meant  to  indicate  that  if  Lawrence 
supposed  that  Clowes  was  afraid  of  him,  Lawrence 
was  mistaken. 

Lawrence  passed  through  the  outer  room  to  the 
articled-clerks'   room,   in  order  to  reach  his  own. 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  73 

There  were  two  articled  clerks,  and  they  represented 
the  two  great  divisions  of  their  caste,  the  division 
which  pays  and  the  division  which  is  paid.  Mr. 
Arthur  Sillitoe,  of  the  gilded  youth,  had  paid  a 
premium  of  two  hundred  guineas  in  order  to  sit  in 
Fearns's  office;  he  received  no  salary,  and  his  view  of 
the  seriousness  of  life  and  law  varied  with  his  dis- 
tance from  an  examination.  Mr.  Paul  Pennington 
had  paid  no  premium,  and  he  received  a  salary  of 
a  pound  a  week.  Pennington  came  from  Oldcastle, 
which,  though  contiguous  with,  is  not  part  of,  the 
Five  Towns.  He  had  won  a  series  of  scholarships 
up  to  the  age  of  seventeen,  and  afterward,  in  eight 
years  of  assorted  clerkships,  had  saved  enough 
money  to  pay  the  eighty-poundstamp  on  his  articles, 
his  examination  fees,  and  the  cost  of  his  law-books. 
Fearns  gave  him  his  "articles"  as  the  phrase  is, 
on  the  clear  condition  that  he  should  work.  And 
he  did  work.  He  was  one  of  those  young  men  of 
the  people,  all  vigour  and  integrity  and  no  humour, 
who  rise  with  the  irrepressibleness  of  a  tide  to  a 
certain  height  and  then  gradually  sink  because  they 
are  without  imagination.  In  a  year  Paul  Penning- 
ton had  terrorized  the  office;  even  Fearns  went 
morally  in  secret  fear  of  him.  For  Pennington 
was  business-like.  He  discovered  the  crass  ineffi- 
ciency of  the  office.  He  coldly  pointed  out  that  the 
indexing  of  the  letter-book  was  always  in  arrear, 


74  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

that  neither  Fearns  nor  Lawrence  wrote  up  his  pro- 
fessional diary  fully  and  properly,  that  the  bills 
of  costs  were  not  delivered  with  regularity,  and  that 
the  system  of  book-keeping  was  simply  a  complete 
lack  of  system.  He  was  relentless,  and  the  mighty 
force  of  right  was  behind  him.  He  meant  to  reform 
the  office.  He  engaged  single-handed  in  a  warfare 
against  the  temperaments  of  Fearns,  Lawrence, 
and  Sillitoe.  He  had  far  less  brains  than  any  of 
them,  but  he  fought  and  defeated  them  every  day. 
Out  of  sheer  enthusiasm  for  order  and  efficiency, 
he  undertook,  in  addition  to  his  ordinary  work, 
the  whole  of  the  book-keeping  and  the  superintend- 
ence of  the  costs.  He  put  perhaps  a  couple  of 
hundred  per  annum  into  Fearns's  pocket,  and  Fearns 
resented  it.  He  never  arrived  late,  and  he  never 
left  early.  He  was  terrific,  a  prodigy.  He  would 
never  earn  more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  a  year. 

"Good  morning,"  he  said  drily  to  Lawrence, 
looking  up  from  a  Kean  ledger.  He  was  alone; 
Sillitoe's  chair  was  empty.  His  black  hair  shone; 
he  was  wearing  his  office  coat. 

"Good  morning,"  said  Lawrence,  trying  to  slip 
through  the  room. 

"Will  you  let  me  have  your  attendances  in 
Wilcox  V.  Wilcox  to-day.?" 

"I'll  try,"  said  Lawrence,  "I've  got " 

"You  promised  me   them    the   day   before   yes- 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  75 

terday,"  Pennington  stated,  as  he  bent  to  the 
ledger. 

"Well  I  can't  do  everything," snapped  Lawrence. 
Pennington's  writing-master  way  of  holding  a  pen 
irritated  him. 

"As  you  please,"  said  Pennington  suavely.  "I 
merely  mention  the  matter,  Mr.  Ridware." 

He  was  always  like  that,  invincible  and  calm. 
He  always  left  it  to  your  conscience.  Considering 
his  age,  he  was  an  unhuman  exaggeration  of  right- 
eousness. 

Lawrence  went  to  his  own  room  and  sat  down 
with   his   hat  on. 

It  was  quite  a  small  room,  furnished  with  an  old 
flat  knee-hole  desk,  a  large  tall  cabinet  of  newly 
stained  wood  comprising  closed  pigeon-holes  let- 
tered in  black  from  A  to  Z,  two  old  chairs,  a  covered 
washstand,  and  a  legal  almanac.  The  floor  was 
bare.  Behind  the  door  hung  an  old  coat.  A  fire 
was  laid  but  not  lighted  in  the  tiny  fireplace,  and 
on  the  mantelpiece  were  a  few  law-books  and  a 
towel.  The  desk  bore  a  Hudson  and  Kearns  blot- 
ting-pad, an  enormously  thick  Legal  Diary,  with  a 
page  for  every  day  in  the  year  (except  Sundays), 
and  immense  quantities  of  miscellaneous  informa- 
tion; also  several  shallow  wicker-baskets  containing 
bundles  of  papers  tied  with  pink  tape  (not  red 
tape)  or  buckled  in  a  sort  of  worsted  strap;  some 


76  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

of  these  bundles  were  thick  with  dust;  an  Isobath 
inkstand  and  two  pens  completed  the  treasures  of 
the  desk.  The  geography  of  the  room  was  such 
that  when  Lawrence  sat  at  the  desk  he  had  his 
back  to  the  window  and  his  face  to  the  door;  nobody 
had  ever  been  clever  enough  to  arrange  the  room 
differently;  but  some  daring  and  ingenious  person 
had  carried  an  india-rubber  pipe  from  the  gas  chan- 
delier in  the  centre  of  the  ceiling  to  a  movable  lamp 
which  could  be  placed  on  the  desk  when  necessary, 
mingling  its  tube  with  the  speaking-tubes.  In  this 
apartment  Lawrence  spent  nearly  a  third  of  his  life. 
The  unique  and  terrible  Pennington  had  evidently 
been  before  him  in  the  room  that  morning,  on  a 
mission  of  efficiency,  for  the  bundle  of  papers  in 
Wilcox  V.  Wilcox  was  propped  up  in  a  prominent 
position  against  one  of  the  baskets  so  that  his  eyes 
could  not  miss  it.  There  were  also  on  the  blotting- 
pad  some  letters  for  his  attention.  He  stared  at 
these  things  with  a  fixed  determination  to  ignore 
them;  he  had  no  conscience  whatever  for  his  duties. 
For  as  he  had  climbed  the  stairs  he  had  suddenly 
and  tremendously  resolved  that  he  would  plunge 
into  the  matter  of  the  divorce  at  once,  that  he 
would  not  palter  with  it,  nor  hesitate.  And  this 
resolution  was  like  a  new  resolution.  He  had 
definitely  promised  Mark  last  night  that  he  would 
commence  proceedings  instantly.     But  that  promise 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  -j-j 

seemed  to  be  unreal,  not  authentic  nor  binding, 
a  mere  form  of  words,  one  of  those  promises  which 
Lawrence  too  frequently  made  to  himself  or  to  other 
people,  and  broke,  having  known  always  that  he 
would  break  them.  The  present  resolution  was 
different.  It  was  among  the  few  genuine  resolu- 
tions of  his  life.  It  possessed,  absorbed,  and  fright- 
ened him,  as  his  resolution  to  propose  marriage 
to  Phyllis  had  once  possessed,  absorbed,  and 
frightened  him.  He  would  be  capable  of  nothing 
else  until  the  vow  had  been  fulfilled. 

He  had  settled  precisely  the  order  of  the  steps 
which  he  would  take.  Immediately  on  the  arrival 
of  Mr.  Fearns  he  would  go  into  Fearns's  office  and 
tell  him,  and  ask  his  advice,  and  he  would  then  go 
to  the  articled-clerks'  room  and  inform  Pennington 
and  Sillitoe  of  the  sensation  that  awaited  them, 
in  a  voice  so  loud  that  Clowes  and  Gater  would 
hear.  Thus  the  entire  staff  would  learn  the  news, 
and  he  could  draw  breath,  for  something  would 
have  been  accomplished. 

And  now  Fearns  was  late  at  the  office!  And 
Lawrence  was  forced  to  undergo  the  ordeal  of  inac- 
tion. He  gazed  at  the  covered  washstand  and  at 
the  old  coat  .  .  .  Astonishing,  was  it  not,  that 
Mark  had  not  seen  through  Phyllis.^  He  suspected 
thatMark  still  thought  Phyllis  a  damned  fine  woman. 
Well,  let  Mark  live  with  her  for  a  month  and  try  her 


78  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

voice,  her  egotism,  her  grumbling,  and  especially 
her  nagging  voice !  Let  him  try  it !  It  was  infamous, 
infamous,  infamous,  what  she  had  done!  No 
excuse,  no  possible  excuse!  Why  hadn't  she  told 
him  straight  that — ?  She  must  have  spent  the 
night  at  her  mother's!  Of  course  she  might  have 
run  off  direct  to  Greatbatch!  No,  she  would  not 
do  that.  He  reckoned  he  knew  her  well  enough  to 
be  sure  that  she  would  not  do  that.  She  was  at 
her  mother's.  She  was  therefore  not  very  far  away 
from  him  at  that  moment.  She  existed  at  that 
moment!  She  was  doing  something  at  that  mo- 
ment! They  both  lived  and  moved  as  they  had  lived 
and  moved  yesterday,  just  as  though  nothing  had 
happened!  It  was  the  same  Phyllis,  the  same 
Lawrence!  Strange  and  disconcerting  thought! 
Was  it  not  like  her,  like  her  unscrupulousness,  like 
her  unfairness,  to  drag  in  the  name  of  Annunciata .'' 
Why  drag  in  the  name  of  Annunciata.'*  Never 
before  had  she  mentioned  that  name.  Scarcely 
even  had  he  mentioned  it  to  her.  Certainly  he 
admired  Annunciata,  that  image  of  the  pure,  fresh 
young  girl.  He  had  not  concealed  the  fact.  Was 
that  it?  Was  that  the  explanation.^  Had  he  once 
by  chance  spoken  of  Annunciata  to  Phyllis  in  a  tone 
that  that  vile  woman,  with  a  woman's  capricious 
stupidity,  had  misinterpreted.''  Annunciata  was  a 
surprising  daughter  for  such  a  man  as  Fearns  to 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  79 

have.  But  then  he  seemed  to  have  heard  that 
such  men  as  Fearns  often  had  such  daughters  as 
Annunciata.  Yes,  he  did  like  Annunciata.  He 
recalled  a  walk  with  her  from  Hanbridge  to  Bursley 
a  year  ago.  In  fact  he  had  not  forgotten  that  walk. 
And  certain  Sunday  afternoons  in  Mrs.  Fearns's 
drawing-room,  Annunciata  pouring  out  teal  A  pure 
girl!  Not  beautiful,  perhaps;  but  that  quality 
of  purity!  Her  mother  had  it.  He  liked  mother 
and  daughter  equally.  Astonishing  that  Phyllis 
should  go  and  hit  Annunciata  in  that  manner. 
It  was  as  if  she  had  hit  a  nail  full  on  the  head 
with  a  hammer  by  accident  In  the  dark.  But 
that  was  just  what  women  were  always  doing. 
They  were  always  being  right  and  always  wrong. 
What  would  Mrs.  Capewell  say  when  she  knew 
of  the  aflFair.''  How  shameful  of  Phyllis  to  shock 
the  old  lady! 

He  heard  Fearns's  quick  neat  footsteps  along  the 
passage!  The  moment  had  arrived,  the  second 
great  decisive,  dramatic  moment  of  his  life,  it 
seemed  to  him!  He  rose,  with  a  heart  wildly  beat- 
ing. Fearns  had  gone  into  his  own  room  and  shut 
the  door  hurriedly.  He  struggled  into  the  articled- 
clerks'  room  and  escaped  by  the  door  into  the 
passage.  Pennington  did  not  look  up.  He  Went 
to  Fearns's  door,  and  stood  there  a  few  seconds. 
No, no!     Useless  to  postpone!     The  words  must  be 


8o  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

uttered  at  once!  He  had  sworn;  he  had  sworn; 
the  oath  must  be  kept,  the  appalling  step  taken. 
He  pulled  out  his  handkerchief  and  blew  his  nose 
violently,  and  then  he  knocked,  and  pushed  him- 
self into  the  room. 

Fearns  was  already  at  his  desk;  a  tall,  well-made 
man  of  forty-five,  but  looking  decidedly  younger, 
with  very  dark  brown  hair,  and  a  strong  moustache 
showing  a  first  faint  hint  of  gray;  his  nose  was  big, 
like  his  white  hands;  his  eyes  bluish-black;  at  a  dis- 
tance he  seemed  to  be  in  the  perfection  of  physical 
health,  but  on  a  nearer  view  one  saw  fatigue  in  the 
eyes  and  the  lips,  and  the  skin,  though  rosy,  would 
not  bear  inspection;  a  powerful,  handsome  creature, 
one  would  say,  audacious,  proud,  rather  gross,  and 
generally  equal  to  the  occasion;  a  man  who  would 
refuse  to  grow  old.  He  glanced  at  Lawrence,  rais- 
ing his  eyes  from  a  letter  which  he  had  just  torn 
from  its  envelope. 

"Ah!     Ridware!     I  want  you,"  he  said  curtly. 

"I  came  to  speak  to  you,  Mr.  Fearns,"  Lawrence 
said  timidly,  shutting  the  door.  His  emotion  was 
really  grotesque  in  its  intensity;  even  to  himself 
it  appeared  ridiculous. 

"What  about?"  Fearns  fired  the  words  at  him 
like  a  bullet. 

"About  —  about  a  matter  of  my  own."  His 
voice  was  husky. 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  8i 

"Well,  that'll  wait  a  bit,  I  reckon.  Look  here. 
Here's  the  title  deeds  of  Nevinshaw's  manufactory. 
I've  been  there  this  morning.  The  mortgage  is 
arranged,  and  it's  got  to  go  through  as  smart  as 
possible.  I've  promised  Tommy  Nevinshaw.  I 
want  you  to  make  the  Abstract  of  Title  at  once, 
and  give  the  draft  to  Clowes  to  copy  sheet  by  sheet 
as  you  do  it.  I'll  see  Hollins  Brothers  some  time 
to-day.  I  shall  tell  them  they  will  have  the  Abstract 
to-morrow  first  post  and  ask  'em  to  examine  deeds 
on  Monday.  We  can  complete  on  Thursday, 
perhaps." 

He  pushed  a  great  parcel  of  deeds  toward 
Lawrence. 

"Understand,  don't  you.?  Title's  clear  enough. 
But  don't  err  on  the  side  of  brevity  all  the  same. 
It  may  save  trouble  in  the  end.  You  never 
know.     See?" 

And  Lawrence  said  meekly:  "Yes."  And  he 
left  the  room,  taking  the  deeds. 

When  he  reached  his  own  room  he  cursed  in 
whispers.  He  could  not  sit  down.  Why  had  he 
allowed  Fearns  to  sweep  him  like  that  off  his  feet.'* 
What  was  a  mortgage,  compared  to  his  affair 
He  stood  by  the  window,  holding  the  deeds  and 
staring  blankly  into  a  small  backyard.  Now  he 
would  have  to  begin  again,  nerve  himself  again, 
suffer  the  torture  again.     And  if  he  had  only  been 


82  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

obstinate  and  courageous,  Fearns  would  at  that 
moment  have  already  heard  the  facts,  and  the  worst 
would  have  been  over.  He  cursed  himself  to  hell, 
and  threw  the  parcel  of  deeds  savagely  to  the  floor. 

He  would  return  to  Fearns  instantly.  He  would 
Insist.  Yes,  instantly!  .  .  .  Phyllis  was  the 
cause  of  all  this.  .  .  .  Thoughtfully  he  picked 
up  the  parcel.  Should  he  go  to  Fearns  instantly, 
or  should  he  wait  to  recover  himself.''  He  heard 
the  whistle  of  a  speaking-tube  somewhere  and  then 
the  feet  of  Gater  leading  a  client  along  the  passage 
to  Fearns's  room.  He  could  not  go  now.  He  must 
wait. 

And  then  Fearns  and  the  client  went  out  together, 
talking  and  laughing  loudly.  The  client  was  the 
Mayor  of  Hanbridge;  he  recognized  the  voice. 

He  sank  into  his  chair. 

He  could  not  make  that  Abstract  of  Title.  He 
simply  could  not.     And  Fearns  was  relying  on  It. 

Jumping  up,  he  took  the  deeds  in  to  Pennington. 
Sillitoe  had  not  yet  come. 

"I  say,  Pennington,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "I  wish 
you'd  oblige  me  by  abstracting  this  Nevinshaw  title 
at  once.  The  governor  wants  it  done  quick.  He's 
told  me  to  do  it,  and  I  can't.  The  fact  is,  Pm 
not  well  at  all." 

"Pm  sorry  to  hear  that,"  answered  Pennington 
kindly.     "What's  the  matter.?' 


i>> 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  83 


<<T». 


I'm  upset."  He  wished  to  tell  him  the  truth, 
but  he  could  not. 

Pennington  eyed  Lawrence  furtively,  and  began 
to  open  the  parcel. 

"Certainly,"  said  Pennington.  "I'll  do  it  as 
quickly  as  I  can."     He  was  quite  sympathetic. 

"Give  it  to  Clowes  to  copy  sheet  by  sheet,  so  as 
to  save  time,  will  you.^" 

"Yes."  He  put  a  piece  of  blotting  paper  geo- 
metrically in  his  ledger,  shut  it,  and  secured  it  in  a 
drawer;  took  out  some  blue  draft  paper  from  another 
drawer,  creased  it  longitudinally  in  several  places 
so  as  to  give  the  different  margins  necessary  for  an 
Abstract  of  Title;  and  then  unfolded  the  topmost 
deed.     He  was  an  invaluable  machine. 

Lawrence  retired.  After  all  Pennington  was  a 
decent  chap. 

Once  again  in  his  room,  the  prospective  petitioner 
to  the  justice  of  England  sat  down  and  resumed 
his  bitter  sullen  stare  at  the  washstand  and  the  old 
coat.  He  could  recall,  he  could  hear,  the  very 
tones,  hard,  loud,  and  exasperating  in  which  Phyllis 
used  to  maintain  her  unscrupulous  arguments 
with  him;  he  could  remember  precisely  her  words. 
And  his  heart  glowed  with  fierce,  merciless  resent- 
ment. Such  women  as  Phyllis.  .  .  .  Why,  even 
Pennington  was  decent.  Phyllis  was  not  decent; 
in  her  composition  there  was  no  basis  of  kindliness. 


84  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

He  went  suddenly,  with  a  new  resolve,  into  Fearns's 
room,  and  opened  the  glass  doors  of  the  bookcase. 
Hung  on  the  wall  on  either  side  of  the  bookcase  were 
framed  photographs  of  a  charming  child  dressed 
up  in  a  judge's  wig  and  robes,  and  imitating  with 
delightful  archness  the  ponderous  didactic  gestures 
of  some  judge  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Judicature. 
Fearns  had  bought  them  from  a  touting  commission 
agent.  They  appealed  to  something  in  Fearns's 
inmost  soul,  and  certainly  they  were  the  only  things 
in  the  place  that  ministered  to  the  human  sense  and 
the  sense  of  beauty.  But  Lawrence  hated  them  in 
that  moment;  they  offended  him  as  photographs 
of  a  child  imitating  the  gestures  of  a  torturer  or  an 
executioner  might  have  offended  him.  They  seemed 
to  him  to  be  an  outrage  on  good  taste.  He  saw  the 
odious  ordeal  and  climax  of  the  divorce  proceedings 
in  a  vision,  and  the  vague,  vast  thought  of  all  the 
distress  and  misery  that  lay  between  him  and  the 
distant  end  of  those  proceedings  settled  on  his  mind 
like  a  nightmare. 

Presently  he  found  the  object  of  his  search  through 
the  shelves  of  the  bookcase,  Dixon's  Law  and  Prac- 
tice in  Divorce  and  other  Matrimonial  Causes,  a 
shabby  large  volume  bound  in  black.  It  was  an 
old  edition,  probably  bought  second-hand  at  a  sale, 
not  for  its  immediate  usefulness,  but  because  it 
might  prove  useful  some  day,  because  it  was  one 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  85 

of  those  books  without  which  no  solicitor's  library 
is  complete.  The  dust  was  thick  on  its  top  edge, 
for  no  divorce  case  had  ever  been  known  in  the  annals 
of  the  Fearns  business.  There  are  over  sixteen 
thousand  solicitors  in  England  and  only  a  few  hun- 
dred divorce  cases  a  year.  Now  at  last  the  famous 
Dixon  was  to  be  useful  in  the  office;  it  would  perhaps 
even  be  necessary  to  buy  the  latest  edition  of  the 
famous  Dixon!  And  for  him,  Lawrence,  for  just 
him!  Out  of  a  quarter  of  a  million  people  in  the 
Five  Towns  he  had  been  chosen  by  destiny  for  this 
disgraceful  renown.  Often  he  had  caught  sight  of 
Dixon  on  the  shelves,  and  Dixon  had  been  nothing 
to  him  but  a  text  book.  Whereas  to-day  .  .  . 
Life  was  incredible,  incredible. 

He  carried  the  book  away  to  his  lair.  He  must 
study  it.  He  must  get  it  up.  In  the  seventeen 
years  which  had  passed  (seventeen  years  ago  he 
was  beginning  his  career  —  and  what  a  career,  he 
reflected  sardonically!)  since  his  final  examination 
for  admittance  as  a  solicitor,  he  had  almost  completely 
forgotten  the  law  of  divorce,  and  the  details  of 
the  practice  he  had  forgotten  utterly.  He  began 
to  read  the  book,  to  swallow  its  contents  with  the 
facile  rapidity  of  the  expert  reader  and  student.  It 
was  a  horrible  book;  it  was  decidedly  the  most 
horrible  book  in  the  world.  It  was  Chinese  in  its 
laconic,  impassive  indifference  to  the  possibilities  of 


86  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

emotion.  It  went  across  the  whole  naked  field  of 
human  suffering  like  a  steam-plough.  On  every  page 
were  terse  sentences  that  ripped  the  tissues  of  the 
heart.  "Bad  language.  Evidence  of,  is  useful  where 
it  leads  up  to  personal  violence.  Dysart  v.  Z)., 
3  N.C.  343."  He  thanked  heaven  that  he  had  never 
reached  bad  language  —  to  a  woman!  Personal 
violence!  Good  God!  What  vistas  of  abasement! 
Or:  "The  husband's  conduct.  Inattention  to  his 
wife's  conduct  is  not  connivance  at  her  adultery. 
He  must  have  been  privy  to  it,  or  have  led  her  into 
it.  Rix  V.  R.  3  Hagg.  E.  R.  74."  Connivance! 
The  unspeakable,  ignominious,  polluting  word  was 
all  over  the  page.  It  was  even  printed  in  capitals! 
And  Dixon  was  good  enough  to  assure  him,  the 
husband  inattentive,  that  his  inattention  was  not 
connivance!     Thanks,  O  Dixon  I 

When  he  had  gulped  down  the  whole  book,  he 
turned  back  to  the  chapter  entitled  "The  Petitioners 
Case"  and  mechanically  took  up  some  memorandum 
sheets  in  order  to  make  rough  notes.  These  mem- 
orandum sheets  consisted  of  discarded  office  note- 
paper,  bearing  the  legend,  "Fearns  &  Thomas," 
instead  of  "Charles  Fearns."  They  were  one  of 
the  few  traces  of  Fearns's  brief  partnership  with  the 
dead  Thomas.  And  Lawrence  somehow  saw  that 
partnership  name  in  a  new  light,  in  a  light  so  strange 
and  sad  that  the  moisture  glistened  for  a  moment 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  87 

in  his  eyes.  He  had  occupied  that  room  for  years. 
And  then  he  had  made  way  for  young  Thomas,  and 
Thomas  had  occupied  it  for  a  Httle  space;  and  now 
he  had  come  back,  and  Thomas  was  dead  and 
buried,  his  memorial  a  quire  or  so  of  discarded  note- 
paper!  The  sea  of  existence  rolled  deep  over  young 
Thomas!  And  he,  Lawrence,  had  descended  to 
the  Divorce  Court!  What  a  world  was  this 
world! 

There  were  footsteps  outside  the  door.  Like  a 
guilty  lad  he  shut  Dixon  and  covered  him  quickly 
with  paper,  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"I'm  going  out  to  dinner,"  said  Pennington, 
standing  gravely  at  the  door.  "I've  done  quite 
half  of  that  thing." 

"Have  you?  I'm  awfully  obliged  to  you." 
Lawrence  blushed. 

"Not  at  all.  Are  you  all  right.''  Can  I  get  you 
anything?" 

"No  thanks,"  said  Lawrence.     "I'm  all  right." 

"Why  don't  you  go  home?" 

"I'm  just  as  well  here." 

"Very  good!"  Pennington  agreed,  coldly  and 
discreetly  incurious.     And  left,  closing  the  door. 

Lawrence  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  past  one. 
Fearns  would  now  surely  not  return  before  two 
o'clock  at  the  earliest.  He  was  proud  of  his  industry. 
At  any  rate  he  was  not  wasting  time;  he  was   not 


88  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

hesitating  in  his  distasteful,  sickening  enterprise. 
He  was  on  the  contrary  showing  energy.  And 
he  re-opened  Dixon.  At  half-past  one  he  felt 
hungry.  The  morning  had  slipped  away.  The 
activity  of  the  ofhce  had  gone  on  as  usual,  Pen- 
nington writing,  Clowes  doggedly  copying,  Gater 
busy  in  nothings,  Sillitoe  no  doubt  bending  indo- 
lently to  the  law  from  the  lofty  platform  of  the 
gilded  youth!  Usually  Lawrence  brought  with  him 
a  packet  of  sandwiches  and  a  flask  for  his  lunch,  for 
the  distance  to  Toft  End  was  nearly  two  miles; 
but  to-day  he  had  never  once  thought  of  his  lunch. 
And  now  he  was  very  hungry  indeed.  He  went 
to  the  outer  office,  where  he  knew  Gater  would  be 
sitting  in  solitary  charge  of  the  establishment, 
and  told  the  boy  to  go  and  buy  a  pork  pie  from  the 
Coffee  House. 

"By  the  way,  Gater,"  he  said.  "I'll  bring  you 
your  bicycle  to-morrow." 

"Thank  you,  sir.  I  suppose  you  found  the  gear 
high,  sir.     It's  over  ninety." 

"Terrible,"  said  Lawrence. 

And  Gater  ran  off,  flattered  by  this  tribute  to 
his  high  gear. 

Lawrence  took  his  place  in  the  outer  office  as 
guardian,  and  glanced  idly  at  the  Call  Book.  Eight 
people  had  called  during  the  morning.  Pennington 
must   certainly   have   taken   measures   to   prevent 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  89 

Lawrence  from  being  disturbed.  Extraordinary, 
how  thoughtful  Pennington  was! 

A  dirty  ragged  old  woman  came  tremblingly 
in,  after  having  knocked  twice  and  been  twice 
summoned  to  enter.     She  curtsied. 

"I've  brought  th'  rent,"  she  said  in  a  hoarse 
voice.  She  was  a  tenant  of  one  of  the  hundred  or 
more  cottages  belonging  to  this  or  that  mortgaged 
estate  administered  by  Fearns  on  behalf  of  mort- 
gagees —  his  clients. 

"Where's  your  book,'"'  Lawrence  asked.  Rent- 
collecting  was  a  branch  of  the  business  with  which 
he  had  nothing  to  do. 

The  old,  bent,  bareheaded  woman  handed  up  a 
filthy  rent-book  and  with  it  a  greasy  half-crown 
that  was  offensive  even  to  the  touch.  The  odour 
of  rum  permeated  the  air. 

"But  look  here,"  said  Lawrence,  examining  the 
book,  and  adopting  the  firm  tone  which  he  knew 
to  be  necessary.  "It's  just  three  weeks  since  you 
paid  anything,  and  now  you  come  with  half-a-crown !'' 

"Us  canna'  help  it,"  the  old  woman  whined, 
rubbing  her  eyes  with  an  apron  made  of  sacking.  "  My 
son's  pleeing  (playing  —  not  working)  three  days  a 
wik  —  and  four  childer!  And  th'  house  Inna  fit 
for  live  in " 

"That's  all  very  well,"  said  Lawrence.  "But 
we  shall  have  to "     He  stopped. 


90  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

"Bums?"  exclaimed  the  old  woman.  "Nay, 
nay,  mester!  Dunna'  say  that.  I  bin  i'  that  house 
thirty-four  year." 

He  initialled  the  book,  and  gave  it  to  her,  trying 
to  look  stern.  And  just  as  she  was  leaving,  with 
another  curtsey,  Fearns  himself  burst  in.  And 
she  curtsied  lower  to  him. 

"Mother  Podmore!"  he  greeted  her  with  gay 
familiarity. 

"Eh,  Mester  Charles!"  she  replied   obsequiously. 

"You've  been  drinking." 

"Not  a  drop!"  the  old  woman  swore. 

"Well,"  said  Fearns.  "Here's  sixpence  for  you. 
Be  off.  I  won't  inquire  about  your  rent  —  not 
this  time." 

She  blessed  him,  and  assured  him  that  beyond 
doubt  he  was  a  true  gentleman,  and  then  she  de- 
parted, mumbling  her  appreciation  of  this  splendid 
and  generous  male  all  the  way  down  the  stairs. 

"Where's  Gater.?"  Fearns  demanded  of  Law- 
rence, suddenly  dropping  into  a  cold,  almost  savage 
tone,  and  when  Lawrence  had  informed  him  he  said, 
in  the  same  tone,  "You're  getting  on  with  that 
Abstract,  eh.?" 

"It's  more  than  half  done,"  Lawrence  replied 
evasively.  He  could  not  begin  his  explanations 
to  Fearns  in  the  middle. 

Fearns,  apparently  preoccupied,  hastened  with- 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  91 

out  another  word  to  his  room.  He  had  been  pre- 
occupied and  curt  for  several  days  past.  It  was 
remarkable,  thought  Lawrence,  how  he  had  softened 
to  the  old  woman  Podmore,  just  for  a  few  instants. 
Fearns  was  one  of  those  men  who  do  not  distinguish 
between  women.  The  mere  presence  of  Woman, 
even  if  she  is  worn  out  and  wears  a  coal  sack 
and  poisons  the  air,  changes  them,  challenges 
them  to  please. 

"Put  it  on  my  desk,"  said  Lawrence  to  Gater, 
when  Gater  brought  the  pork  pie.  And  without 
giving  himself  a  moment  to  think  he  went  straight 
to  Fearns's  room,  knocked,  and  entered. 

Fearns,  with  his  hat  on,  was  drumming  against 
the  window  pane. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Mr.  Fearns,"  Lawrence 
began. 

"I  haven't  had  lunch  yet,"  Fearns  complained, 
as  he  turned  to  face  Lawrence. 

"It's  about  a  divorce  case,"  said  Lawrence, 
ignoring  the  remark.  And,  having  uttered  the  fatal 
word,  he  felt  calmer.  "After  all,"  he  said  to  himself, 
breathing  like  one  who  has  just  come  through  a 
peril,  "I'm  only  talking  to  him.  There's  nothing 
to  be  afraid  of  or  ashamed  of." 

"What  divorce  case.'*" 

"My  divorce  case,"  said  Lawrence,  boldly. 

"You've   left   the   door   ajar.     Better   close   it," 


92  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

said  Fearns.  Lawrence  with  a  startled  jump, 
obeyed  the  suggestion.  And  then  Fearns,  looking 
at  him  steadily,  continued:  "You  don't  mean  that 
yow've  been  making  a  fool  of  yourself,  Ridware?" 

"I  propose  to  bring  an  action  against  my  wife," 
Lawrence  told  him  with  singular  quietude.  "And 
the  co-respondent  will  be  Emery  Greatbatch,  B.A." 

Fearns  sat  down  in  his  revolving  chair,  and  put 
his  hat  with  a  bang  on  the  desk.  He  had  certainly 
gone  pale. 

"Ridware,"  he  murmured.  "You  shock  me! 
You  shock  me!" 

Lawrence  took  the  chair  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  great  desk. 

"Yes,  I  daresay,"  he  said  angrily.  "But  I've 
been  a  great  deal  more  shocked  than  you  are." 
He  saw  quite  plainly  that  Fearns  was  aifected  as 
Mark  had  been  affected.  The  first  movement  of 
Fearns's  heart  was  clearly  one  of  sympathy  for 
Phyllis.  Why.''  How  was  it  that  these  men  had 
got  into  their  heads  the  idea  that  Phyllis  was  the 
pearl  of  her  sex.''  Let  them  live  with  her!  Let 
them  live  with  her!  Fearns  was  gazing  at  him  as 
though  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  having  brought 
such  a  charge  against  such  a  woman. 

"Has  your  wife  confessed.'"'  Fearns  asked. 

"Confessed!"  Lawrence  sneered,  and  he  was  sur- 
prised at  his  own  freedom  in  handling  the  interview 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  93 

which  he  had  so  much  dreaded.  He  knew  his 
demeanour  was  rapidly  losing  its  accustomed  re- 
straint, and  he  rejoiced.  "I  should  think  she 
hadn't  confessed!" 

"Then  how  do  you  know  —  What  proofs  have 
you .?" 

"I'll  tell  you  in  two  minutes  what  proofs  I  have," 
Lawrence  responded.  "I  expect  you  didn't  see 
that  woman  who  called  here  last  night.'"' 

"No,"  said  Fearns  stiffly.     "What  woman?" 

And  Lawrence  described  to  him  in  detail  what 
he  had  learnt  from  Lottie. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"A  discharged  servant!"  Fearns  exclaimed  at 
length,  and  his  voice  was  full  of  insinuation. 

"Not  in  the  least  a  discharged  servant!"  cried 
Lawrence,  growing  angrier. 

"My  dear  fellow,  don't  talk  so  loud,"  Fearns 
expostulated.  "You'll  do  yourself  no  good  by 
losing  your  temper,  you   know." 

"I  won't  lose  my  temper,"  said  Lawrence,  in  a 
low  tone.  He  leaned  back  in  the  chair  and  threw 
out  his  legs.  "All  I  say  is,  she  isn't  a  discharged 
servant.  It's  not  that  kind  of  thing  at  all.  And 
there  can  be  no  doubt  whatever  of  the  facts!  More- 
over my  wife  has  already  left  me." 

"When  was  that?" 

"Last  night."     And   he  proceeded   further  with 


94  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

his  recital,  repeating  more  than  once  what  he  had 
previously  stated. 

"And  you  are  determined  to  bring  an  action?" 

"Absolutely." 

"It's  a  pity  you've  no  one  to  consult." 

"But  I'm  consulting  you!" 

"I  mean  your  own  people  —  relatives." 

"I've  consulted  my  brother  Mark.  He  came 
down  specially  from  London  last  night  to  see  me." 

"Oh ! .  Mark ! "  Fearns  muttered  the  name queerly, 
and  hesitated.     "And  what  does  he  say.?" 

"Why,  of  course  he  agrees  with  me  that  I  must 
commence  proceedings  at  once!"  Lawrence  felt 
as  though  for  the  last  twenty  hours  he  had  been 
burning  to  bring  an  action  and  had  been  hindered 
by  his  friends.     "What  else  is  there  to  do.?" 

"Certainly,  certainly,"  Fearns  concurred.  "Your 
wife's  not  likely  to  let  it  go  undefended,  I  suppose.? 
Anyhow,  Greatbatch  isn't.  It  will  ruin  his  career 
—  him,  a  schoolmaster!" 

"A  good  thing,  too!"  said  Lawrence,  once  more 
startled  and  pleased  by  his  own  fierceness. 

"You'll  have  to  give  security  for  your  wife's 
costs,"  said  Fearns  warningly. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Lawrence  replied.  "It's  a  scanda- 
lous thing,  that  is." 

"It  isn't  a  scandalous  thing  at  all,"  said  Fearns 
crossly.     "It's  perfectly  just.' 


)> 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  95 

"My  wife  has  a  small  private  income." 

"That's  nothing  to  do  with  it.  The  law  v/as 
made  to  meet  the  average  case." 

"Well,  I  shall  give  security  for  my  wife's  costs," 
Lawrence  said,  with  acerbity.  "There  will  be  no 
difficulty  about  that.     I  shall  give  security." 

"And  I  take  it  you  want  me  to  act?" 

Lawrence  nodded. 

"Very  well,"  said  Fearns,  reluctantly,  "if  you 
are  decided.  Begin  when  you  like.  You  know 
quite  as  much  about  the  procedure  as  I  do.  You've 
got  to  make  sure  of  your  witnesses.  The  lodging 
house  keeper  at  Manifold  is  the  first  person  to  see." 

"I  don't  want  to  conduct  the  thing  myself,  sir," 
Lawrence  said  sharply.     "You'll  appreciate  that." 

Fearns  seemed  puzzled,  taken  back.  "Well,  then," 
he  said,  "give  it  to  Sillitoe.  It  will  be  experience 
for  him."     And  he  rose  and  picked  up  his  hat. 

"Sillitoe.^     Do  you  think  he's  equal " 

Well,  Pennington  if  you  prefer.  As  you  please." 
I  was  hoping  that  you  would  keep  an  eye  on 
it  yourself,  sir,"  said  Lawrence,  suddenly  and 
inexplicably  grown  timid. 

"I  shall  naturally  do  that,"  Fearns  replied  icily. 
"I  try  to  keep  an  eye  on  everything  in  this  office. 
I'm  going  out  to  lunch  now." 

And  he  departed,  nervous,  disturbed,  irritated, 
as  it  were  with  a  grievance  against  a  trusted  employe 


11 


96  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

with  whom  he  was  ordinarily  on  terms  of  amiable 
if  occasionally  brusque  familiarity. 

Lawrence  ate  the  pork-pie  with  appetite  and 
drank  a  glass  of  water.  He  was  in  a  peculiarly 
uplifted  state.  The  misery,  the  disquiet,  the  hot 
resentment  still  dominated  his  heart;  the  sense 
of  appalling  and  undeserved  injury  remained  always 
there.  But  he  now  somehow  exulted  in  calamity. 
He  was  conscious  of  a  strange  momentary  energy, 
and  of  a  desire  to  talk  about  his  affairs  to  all  the 
world.  He  actually  had  an  impulse  to  go  and  tell 
Gater;  he  did  not,  however,  yield  to  it.  He  meant 
to  be  philosophical,  in  a  rather  cynical  way.  He 
was  determined  to  be  surprised  at  nothing;  for 
instance,  he  was  determined  not  to  be  surprised  at 
Fearns's  remarkable  attitude  in  face  of  his  disclosures. 
Fearns  had  seemed  to  be  upset  by  the  mere  idea  of 
divorce,  of  anybody's  divorce;  it  had  seemed  to 
trouble  him.  .  .  .  Well,  one  must  not  be  sur- 
prised at  anything,  nowadays,  from  human  nature, 
said  Lawrence  to  himself  loftily. 

He  resumed  his  study  of  Dixon.  At  half  past 
three  he  boasted  that  he  had  mastered  the  law  and 
practice  of  divorce.  The  pepper  in  the  pork-pie 
had  made  him  very  thirsty.  He  put  on  his  hat  and 
with  a  certain  swagger  went  into  the  articled-clerks' 
room.     Sillitoe's  chair  remained  consistently  empty. 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  97 

"I  shall  have  done  in  half  an  hour,"  said  Pen- 
nington. 

"Good!"  said  Lawrence.  "When  you  are  free  I 
want  to  have  a  private  chat  with  you,  old  man. 
I've  something  to  tell  you  that  will  surprise  you." 
His  hands  were  deep  in  his  pockets,  his  hat  at  the 
back  of  his  head.  And  he  had  called  Pennington 
"old  man!"  Assuredly  he  was  a  changed  Lawrence. 

"Really!"  murmured  Pennington,  unmoved. 

"Yes.  I'm  just  going  out  to  get  a  drink.  Back 
directly.  Hasn't  young  Sillitoe  turned  up  at  all 
to-day.?" 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Pennington.  "But  he  went  out 
a  minute  since." 

Lawrence  strolled  to  the  Turk's  Head  in  Crown 
Square. 

The  old  Turk's  Head  was  not  the  most  magnifi- 
cent hotel  in  Hanbridge;  it  was  not  magnificent  at 
all.  Nevertheless  its  series  of  bars  and  parlours 
and  smoke  rooms,  with  different  levels  of  tiled  floors, 
and  grimy  ceilings,  mazily  confusing  to  the  stranger 
but  simplicity  itself  to  the  habitue,  were  frequented 
by  the  governing  classes  of  Hanbridge,  and  history 
was  made  in  them.  The  Turk's  Head,  in  a  superla- 
tive degree,  was  what  is  known  among  experts  as 
"  a  good  house."  Magnetized  by  the  irresistible  attrac- 
tion of  a  reliable  whiskey  (young  men  with  a  ten- 
dency to  sweep  said  it  was  the  only  whiskey  in  the 


98  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

Five  Towns  that  could  be  differentiated  from  poison), 
reassured  by  traditions  of  impeccable  respecta- 
bility, and  by  that  air  of  being  an  institution  which 
the  Turk's  Head  had,  town  councillors,  justices  of 
the  peace,  officials,  journalists,  actors,  and  men  of 
mark  professionally  and  commercially,  would  "drop 
in"  from  morn  to  night  for  half  an  hour's  relaxation 
and  fellowship.  It  was  emphatically  a  resort  of 
persons  "in  the  know."  It  was  a  spot  where  hypoc- 
risy was  abandoned  and  make-believes  put  aside, 
where  the  gullibility  of  the  public  was  deplored  and 
laughed  at,  where  men  talked  sincerely  about  many 
things  —  and  especially  about  women.  The  most 
dreadful  truths  were  accepted  as  the  commonplaces 
of  human  nature  at  the  Turk's  Head.  Less  stiff 
and  stuffy  than  the  Conservative  Club,  and  infi- 
nitely more  solid  and  influential  than  the  Liberal 
Club,  it  united  all  parties  except  the  Temperance 
and  the  extreme  religious.  Decidedly  there  were 
important  men  in  Hanbridge  who  would  never 
have  dreamed  of  entering  the  Turk's  Head,  but 
they  were  not  of  the  kind  that  is  prepared  to  make 
allowances  for  the  excessive  humanity  of  human 
nature.  In  brief,  the  Turk's  Head  was  a  hotel 
calculated  to  support  the  doctrine  that  the  world 
is  not  such  a  bad  world  after  all,  a  large  and  lovable 
inn.  Such  organisms  can  only  flourish  in  the  prov- 
inces, and  in  a  certain  way  they  illustrate  roughly 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  99 

the  most  agreeable  and  satisfactory  aspects  of  the 
national  character. 

The  licensee  was  a  widow.  She  wore  black  alpaca 
in  the  morning  and  black  silk  later  in  the  day, 
tightly  stretched  over  her  generous  form.  And 
as  her  customers  were  experts  on  women,  so  was 
she  an  expert  on  men;  she  knew;  she  could  hold  her 
own  on  County  Court  day  and  market  days;  also 
on  Shrove  Tuesday,  when  the  entire  clientele 
called  to  eat  her  adorable  pancakes.  Her  domains 
had  a  grimy  look,  but  what  could  one  expect  in 
the  middle  of  a  town  like  Hanbridge.^  And  the 
fixtures  were  not  in  the  first  blush  of  a  vigorous 
youth.  But  everything  had  the  comfortableness 
or  the  accepted  uncomfortableness  of  long,  long 
use,  and  each  bit  of  brass  was  polished  daily.  There 
were  two  barmaids.  Emmie  was  a  young  thing, 
and  nothing  more;  while  Miss  Parrattwasthe  peeress 
of  the  widow,  and  knew  the  separate  eccentricities 
of  some  scores  of  customers.  Better  even  than  the 
widow  she  knew  where  to  draw  the  line.  No  one 
under  the  rank  of  a  magistrate  was  allowed  to  get 
too  mellow  in  the  Turk's  Head.  With  a  magistrate, 
where  are  you.^* 

Lawrence  was  not  a  frequenter  of  the  hotel. 
And  he  went  in  with  the  defiant  shyness  of  a  stranger 
lighting  a  cigarette  to  hide  his  embarrassment  as 
he  passed  to  the  smoke  room  by  the  narrow  place 


loo         WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

where  the  private  bar  was  installed.  The  Mayor 
and  Bob  Cyples  were  holding  small  glasses  to  each 
other  at  the  private  bar,  and  Miss  Parratt  (Lawrence 
did  not  even  know  her  famous  name)  was  doing 
sums  in  a  ledger.  Cyples  nodded  affably  to  Lawrence 
and  the  Mayor  nodded. 

Bob  Cyples  was  one  of  Hanbridge's  familiar 
figures,  and  a  member  of  the  Town  Council.  He 
was  a  tall  and  very  stout  man  of  fifty-five,  with 
gray  hair  and  a  short  bushy  beard.  Although  he 
happened  to  be  a  sober  individual  and  a  regular  liver, 
time  was  measured  at  the  Turk's  Head  by  Bob 
Cyple's  drinks.  This  was  the  hour  of  his  second 
drink;  his  third  would  occur  at  a  quarter  to  six, 
his  fourth  at  eight  thirty,  and  his  fifth  at  five  minutes 
to  eleven.  In  theory  Cyples  was  a  clerk  in  the 
legal  firm  of  Bradwell,  Breeze,  Robinson  &  Willan, 
a  really  large  firm  of  solicitors,  one  of  the  most  im- 
portant in  the  Midlands,  with  an  immense  convey- 
ancing and  general  practice;  there  were  seven  ad- 
mitted solicitors  in  Bradwell's.  Cyples  was  not 
"admitted;"  he  had  never  been  through  an  exam- 
ination; he  had  no  right  to  practise;  he  was  just  an 
unadmitted  clerk.  Nevertheless,  in  fact,  Cyples 
was  the  head,  the  heart  and  the  brain  of  the  firm. 
Old  Bradwell  openly  treated  him  with  the  respect 
due  to  an  equal,  and  the  other  six  admitted  men, 
including  the  junior  partners,  simply  took  Cyples's 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  loi 

orders.  He  had  property  in  various  parts  of  the 
town,  and  he  lived  the  spacious  life  of  a  wealthy 
bachelor.  The  situation  was  a  genuine  mystery. 
Some  said  that,  in  order  to  keep  within  the  statutes 
of  the  Law  Society,  Bradwell's  paid  him  a  fixed 
salary  of  fifteen  hundred  a  year;  others,  that  the 
statutes  of  the  Law  Society  were  secretly  traversed 
and  that  Cyples  was  a  partner  in  the  firm.  His 
astounding  knack  of  getting  business,  his  wonderful 
talent  for  conducting  it  when  got,  his  surpassing 
influence  over  his  fellow  men  —  these  qualities 
in  Cyples  were  denied  by  none.  Yet  his  knowledge 
of  law  was  quite  elementary. 

He  was  as  great  in  pleasure  as  in  business;  a  jolly 
fat  man,  with  a  perfect  stomach.  Habitually  he 
drank  little,  but  he  could  drink  a  lot  with  impu- 
nity. He  enjoyed  life;  he  enjoyed  his  meals;  he 
enjoyed  his  cigars  and  his  whiskey  and  his  wine; 
he  probably  enjoyed  the  gusts  of  temper  with  which 
he  occasionally  gave  variety  to  the  course  of  exist- 
ence inside  Bradwell's.  He  was  a  very  good 
billiard-player,  and  a  finished  card-player.  Solo 
whist  was  his  passion,  and  he  frequently  won 
several  sovereigns  at  it  in  an  evening.  But  he  would 
not  play  at  poker,  which  he  called  "gambling." 
Bridge  he  scorned.  He  knew  nearly  all  the  good 
stories  on  earth;  only  now  and  then  could  an  actor 
in  a  musical-comedy  touring  company  or  an  excep- 


I02  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

tionally  experienced  commercial  traveller  add  to 
his  stock.  He  told  his  tales  —  and  he  had  tales 
for  every  occasion  —  in  a  rich,  vibrating,  hearty 
voice  and  with  a  deep  though  restrained  apprecia- 
tion of  them.  He  spent  all  his  waking  hours  in 
offices,  committee-rooms,  hotels,  and  clubs;  and 
in  his  own  world  he  had  no  superior.  He  was 
inimical  to  fads  and  movements;  his  perceptions 
were  not  very  subtle;  he  had  no  feeling  for  art; 
he  could  not  possibly  be  called  refined;  his  interests 
stopped  short  in  various  directions  in  a  most  disap- 
pointing manner.  But  his  was  a  remarkable  and 
powerful  individuality,  and  he  knew  it.  He  was 
born  to  lead.  He  did  lead.  He  would  not  have 
changed  places  with  a  Prime  Minister. 

In  the  smoke  room,  Lawrence  discovered  Sillitoe 
alone,  and  he  was  very  glad  to  discover  Sillitoe. 
Sillitoe  supervened  as  a  friend  in  a  foreign  land,  and 
asked  him  what  he  would  have,  and  generally  did 
the  honours  of  the  place.  Sillitoe,  aged  twenty- 
three,  was  an  orphan  with  too  much  money,  a  fair, 
stout,  dandiacal  youth  whose  boyish  face  was 
already  beginning  to  coarsen,  a  weak  soul  doomed 
from  the  first  to  destruction,  a  person  of  no  impor- 
tance. Lawrence  despised  and  pitied  him.  And 
yet,  over  a  glass  of  beer,  he  told  Sillitoe  in  a  few 
words  of  the  forthcoming  divorce  case,  and  Sillitoe 
was  much  flattered  to  learn  that  no  one  save  himself 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  103 

and  Mr.  Fearns  yet  knew  of  the  affair.  He  said 
he  should  be  delighted  to  do  all  he  could  in  the 
matter.  Never  before  had  Sillitoe  been  conscious 
of  a  sincere  interest  in  Mr.  Fearns's  business.  Law- 
rence suggested  that  he  might  search  the  office  stock 
for  forms  for  petition,  citation,  praecipe,  et  cetera. 
And  Sillitoe,  having  insisted  on  paying  for  Lawrence's 
beer,  hurried  back  to  the  office  full  of  the  urgency 
of  his  mission,  and  left  Lawrence  solitary  in  the 
smoke  room.  He  promised  to  tell  Pennington. 
It  had  been  Lawrence's  intention  to  speak  first 
to  Pennington,  but  he  altered  his  plan  in  obedience 
to  the  hazard  of  this  meeting. 

Then  he  heard  the  voice  of  Cyples  saying  to  the 
Mayor,  "One  moment  and  I  am  with  you,"  and 
Cyples  came  into  the  smoke  room  with  his  easy 
alert  tread,  carrying  lightly  that  vast  bulk. 

"How  do  you  do,  Ridware .'"'  he  greeted  Lawrence 
with  marked  seriousness  and  deference,  and  drawing 
forward  a  chair  he  sat  down  and  put  his  expressive, 
sagacious  face  close  to  Lawrence's. 

"I  needn't  tell  you  how  pained  I  am  about  — 
you  know  what,"  said  he  in  a  confidential  whisper. 
And  ere  Lawrence  could  utter  a  word  he  added: 
"Mrs.  Ridware  has  instructed  us." 

Lawrence  was  taken  absolutely  by  surprise. 
"What.''  My  wife.?"  he  stammered,  blushing. 
"She's  been  to  see  you  already?" 


I04  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

"Her  mother  brought  her  to  see  me  this  morning,  " 
said  Cyples. 

"Oh,  very  well!  Very  well!"  Lawrence  haugh- 
tily responded. 

"Of  course  we  will  accept  service,"  Cyples  said. 

"You  can't,"  said  Lawrence  shortly. 

"Oh!  Must  it  be  personal?  I  forget,"  Cyples 
urbanely  murmured. 

"And  Grcatbatch?  What  about  him.?"  de- 
manded Lawrence,  nodding. 

"I  know  nothing  about  Mr.  Greatbatch,"  said 
Cyples,  still  in  a  whisper.     "Good  day." 

And  with  a  smile  almost  genial,  he  left  to  rejoin 
the  Mayor. 

The  fact  that  the  formidable  Cyples  was  arrayed 
against  him  frightened  Lawrence.  How  rapidly 
events  matured!  The  action  seemed  already  to 
have  begun!  Well,  he  was  in  for  it!  It  was  like 
Phyllis  to  go  straight  to  Cyples!  And  with  her 
mother!     He  felt  that  he  must  see  Mrs.  Capewell. 

Later,  In  the  office,  he  talked  much,  and  with  a 
freedom  that  continually  astonished  him,  to  Pen- 
nington and  Sillitoe.  And  except  a  fruitless  search 
in  the  form  cupboard  for  divorce  forms,  nothing 
in  the  way  of  office  routine  was  accomplished  until 
Fearns  telephoned  some  instructions  about  corre- 
spondence, with  a  message  that  he  should  not  return 
that  evening.     And  gradually  the  hour  of  closing 


ROGUES'  ALLEY  105 

approached.  Lawrence  dictated  some  miscellaneous 
letters,  and  glanced  at  the  Abstract  of  Title.  Sillitoe 
left  at  a  quarter  to  six,  Clowes  and  Pennington 
at  six  precisely.  Gater  was  busily  copying  letters 
in  the  press,  and  addressing  and  stamping  envelopes 
and  entering  up  the  Postage  Book.  It  was  Gater's 
hour  of  importance.  At  a  quarter  past  six  Gater 
inquired  whether  he  might  go,  and,  having  received 
permission,  deposited  the  keys  with  Lawrence  and 
went,  his  hands  full  of  letters  In  virgin  white  envel- 
opes of  various  sizes.  Lawrence  sat  meditative 
as  the  sun  descended.  Another  day  of  his  life 
was  gone.  What  a  day!  What  changes!  It 
seemed  to  be  years  since  the  fact  of  his  wife's  de- 
ception had  reached  him.  He  was  a  man  marked 
and  labelled,  a  petitioner  in  the  Divorce  Court. 
And  Cyples  was  against  him.  All  Hanbridge  would 
buzz  to-morrow;  the  bars  of  the  Turk's  Head 
would  tinkle  to  the  luscious  gossip.  He  rose  dully 
and  sardonically,  and  passed  out  of  the  offices. 
At  the  end  of  the  street  an  electric  car  flashed  down 
populous  Holborn. 

And  his  worries  had  scarcely  begun !  The  enquiries, 
the  collection  of  evidence,  the  innumerable  annoy- 
ances of  a  tedious  and  complex  litigation  .  .  .  ! 
Suddenly  it  struck  him  that  he  had  entirely  forgotten 
to  see  Cousin  Sarah  about  coming  to  stay  with  him 
at  Toft  End  —  entirely  forgotten! 


CHAPTER  III 


ANNUNCIATA 


THE  two  little  Fearns  boys,  Frank  and  Sep, 
aged  six  and  five,  were  playing  at  a  game 
invented  by  Frank  and  called  "Sea-shore" 
In  a  nondescript  space  of  ground  which  extended 
between  the  large  garden  at  the  front  of  the  house 
at  Bleakridge  and  the  paved  yard  at  the  back,  and 
which  was  overlooked  by  the  kitchen  and  scullery 
windows.  It  was  about  six  o'clock  In  the  afternoon 
of  the  day  on  which  Mrs.  Fearns  had  suddenly  gone 
to  Birmingham.  Several  loads  of  fine  gravel,  de- 
posited that  morning  and  Intended  for  the  reparation 
of  the  garden  paths,  were  the  basis  of  the  game,  con- 
stituting a  beach,  while  the  great  oval  lawn,  of  which 
the  garden  principally  consisted,  was  the  rolling 
sea.  The  intrepid  adventurers,  with  the  sleeves  of 
their  tiny  blue  jerseys  rolled  up,  had  their  Llan- 
duno  spades  and  buckets,  and  were  building  a 
castle  in  the  sea,  or  rather  on  it.  They  did  not  go 
into  the  sea,  from  a  prudent  fear  of  getting  their 
sandalled  brown  feet  wet,  but  they  stood  bravely 
at  the  very  edge  of  the  waves  and  flung    spadefuls 

1 06 


ANNUNCIATA  107 

of  gravel  as  far  as  they  could,  and  a  fine  castle  was 
gradually  rising  from  the  deep.  In  the  two  essen- 
tials of  a  maximum  of  innocent  joy  to  the  players 
and  a  maximum  of  unintended  exasperating  incon- 
venience to  the  adult  world,  it  was  a  game  not 
easily  to  be  surpassed. 

Annunciata  Fearns  was  in  the  kitchen,  wearing  a 
pink  pinafore  apron  over  her  white  frock,  and  busy 
in  cake-making  at  the  dresser  under  the  open  win- 
dow. Annunciata's  age  was  twenty.  Like  many 
girls  of  twenty  she  had  the  seriousness  of  Methuselah. 
Her  mother  being  absent,  she  had  voluntarily  taken 
upon  her  shoulders  the  crushing  burden  of  the  entire 
establishment,  including  a  wayward  father,  "the 
children,"  a  French  nursery-governess,  a  cook,  a 
house  parlour  maid,  a  scullery  maid,  a  gardener,  two 
cats,  two  reception  rooms,  a  hall,  seven  bedrooms, 
a  greenhouse  and  a  garden.  In  addition  to  her 
piano  practice,  her  French  lesson,  and  her  reading, 
she  had  already  during  that  industrious  day  accom- 
plished long  letters  to  a  brother  and  sister  away  at 
school,  and  she  had  met  the  telegraph-boy  at  the  gate, 
and  opened  a  reassuring  telegram  from  her  mother 
about  her  aunt,  and  composed  a  reply  in  twelve 
words  and  paid  sixpence  for  it  from  her  own  privy 
purse,  and  she  had  said  "Certainly"  with  dignity 
when  Mademoiselle  had  expressed  a  desire  to  go  out 
alone  for  two  hours  and  leave  the  children  to  her 


io8  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

care;  and  now  she  was  making  cakes,  and  getting 
fuller  and  fuller  of  the  conviction  that  life  was  an 
affair  of  heavy  responsibilities. 

When  she  had  finished  as  much  of  the  cake  mak- 
ing as  she  considered  too  delicate  for  the  skill  of 
the  cook,  she  looked  at  the  kitchen  clock, 

"What  are  you  doing  out  there?"  she  called 
through  the  open  window.  She  could  see  the 
sandy  beach  but  not  the  mighty  ocean. 

There  was  no  answer.  A  first  faint  suspicion 
had  entered  the  heads  of  the  castle  builders  that 
perhaps  after  all  their  operations  were  not  void  of 
offence. 

'Do  you  hear  what  I  say,  Frank?" 

'We're  playing,"  cried  Frank  shrilly  at  length. 

"Well,  you  must  play  off  to  bed,"  said  Annun- 
ciata,  like  doom. 

"ButMamselle  hasn'tcome  home, "Frank argued. 

"There's  no  one  to  give  us  our  baf, "  Sep  supported 
him. 

They  both  waited  anxiously,  spade  in  hand,  to 
hear  the  result  of  these  unanswerable  objections  to 
the  proposal  of  going  to  bed. 

"I'll  give  you  your  bath  myself,"  said  Annun- 
ciata,  who  saw  a  method  at  once  of  adding  to 
the  responsibilities  of  life  and  of  silently  showing 
to  Mademoiselle  that  Mademoiselle  had  not 
kept  her  word. 


ANNUNCIATA  109 

"That's  not  fair,"  Frank  piped.  "Muvver  never 
gives  us  our  baf. " 

It  was  a  smart  thrust  on  Frankie's  part,  this  in- 
sinuation that  to  be  more  motherly  than  mother 
was  cheating;  but  Annunciata  pretended  not  to 
feel  it. 

"I'm  coming  to  catch  you,"  she  smiled  persua- 
sively. 

She  threw  off  the  pinafore  apron,  and  ran,  re- 
suming her  childhood  for  a  moment,  through  the 
side  passage  and  hall  to  the  front  door,  meaning  to 
startle  Frank  and  Sep  from  an  ambush.  At  the 
front  door  she  paused,  knowing  not  why,  and  began 
to  think  about  she  knew  not  what.  She  had  these 
fits.  She  stood  there  looking  vaguely  at  the  lawn 
with  the  croquet  hoops,  and  at  the  row  of  small 
houses  that  could  be  discerned  through  the  hedge 
in  the  street  beyond.  She  was  that  exquisite, 
unique,  inscrutable  thing,  a  young  girl  opening  pure 
eyes  upon  the  world.  Slim,  even  thin,  with  long 
limbs,  she  had  the  delicious  gawky  gracefulness  of 
her  years.  Her  pale  face  was  not  beautiful,  the 
nose  being  insignificant,  but  its  complexion  was 
adorable,  and  the  blood  ran  faintly  beneath  the 
delicate  skin  in  restless  emotional  tides.  And  she 
had  bright  yellow  hair,  done  up  very  tightly;  and 
on  her  finger  was  an  opal  ring  which  her  father  had 
given  to  her,  and  round  her  slender  neck  an  old  gold 


y 


iio  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

necklace  that  had  been  her  grandmother's.  And 
she  herself  was  the  jewel  of  that  red  house  which  her 
grandfather  had  built,  and  which  her  father  had 
enlarged  despite  the  fact  that  it  was  being  gradually 
hemmed  in  by  mean  streets.  She  was  its  most 
precious  treasure,  guarded  passionately  by  her 
parents,  loved,  worshipped,  brooded  over,  dreamt 
on.  It  was  as  if  all  the  ancestors  of  the  Fearns 
family  and  of  the  Leigh  family  had  descended  one 
from  another  in  two  converging  lines  solely  in  order 
to  meet  at  last  in  Annunciata  their  final  expression 
and  justification.  The  house  existed  around  An- 
nunciata; it  was  her  frame.  And  she  was  so  touch- 
ing in  her  naivete,  her  simplicity,  her  seriousness, 
her  sincerity,  her  wonder,  her  capriciousness,  her 
sensitiveness,  her  gawky  grace,  her  enchanting 
alternation  between  childishness  and  womanliness 
—  she  was  so  touching  that  even  to  watch  her  or 
to  catch  her  in  a  characteristic  attitude  would  some- 
times bring  tears  into  the  eyes  of  one  who  had  eyes 
to  see.  Why.^  Heaven  knows!  She  was  not  at 
all  extraordinary.  There  are  thousands  and  thous- 
ands like  her,  tens  of  thousands  of  these  strange 
disturbing  mysterious  vitalities.  And  yet,  frequency 
cannot  cheapen  them.  Each  is  the  supreme  excuse 
for  the  universe,  a  miraculous  vase  from  which  the 
pure  fluid  of  life  itself  seems  to  gush  forth. 

"You're  walking  on  the  sea!     You're  walking  on 


ANNUNCIATA  in 

the  sea!"  Frank  and  Sep  shoutingly  protested 
when  they  saw  Annunciata  creeping  toward  them 
along  the  edge  of  the  lawn. 

"Am  I?"  She  good-naturedly  lifted  up  her  skirts 
and  pretended  to  splash  about  in  the  foam. 

"You'll  get  drownded!"  they  warned  her. 

"Oh!  You  naughty,  naughty  little  things!" 
Annunciata  exploded  when  the  castle  caught  her  eye. 

"What?" 

"Martin  will  be  back  from  his  tea  in  a  minute, 
and  then  what  will  he  say?  I'm  very  cross  with  you 
indeed.     Come  to  bed  now,  or  I  shall  be  really  angry." 

"No,  no,  no! "the  sinners  protested.  "Mamzelle 
hasn't  come,  and  muvver  never  gives  us  our  baf!" 

And  they  ran  madly  off  across  the  sea,  which  had 
suddenly  changed  into  dry  land,  and  Annunciata 
after  them.  And  always  precariously  balanced, 
they  fell  over  each  other,  and  their  clumsy  little 
limbs  mingled  and  their  ridiculous  jerseys  worked 
up  from  the  waist  and  disclosed  their  little  shirts 
and  braces.  And  then  Annunciata  was  bending 
over  them,  sweet  and  yet  formidable,  and  tickling 
them  in  all  their  most  ticklish  places,  and  whimper- 
ings became  shrieks.  This  enormous  sister  of  five 
feet  five  picked  them  up,  one  under  each  Titanic  arm, 
wriggling  and  giggling,  and  marched  them  away. 
Sep  was  upside  down  with  his  sandals  in  her  eyes 
and  his  head  near  the  placket-hole  of  her  frock,  so 


112  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

that  as  he  was  being  carried  toward  the  house  he 
had  a  topsy  turvy  view  of  the  garden-gates. 

"Mamzelle!"  he  shouted  frantically.  "There's 
Mamzelle!" 

Whereupon  Annunclata  turned,  allowed  the  boys 
to  slip  to  the  ground,  and  composed  herself  to 
be  prim. 

"She's  got  another  of  her  beggars!"  Frank  re- 
marked with  loud  contempt. 

"Hush,  Frankie!"     Annunciata  admonished  him. 

Mademoiselle  Renee  Souchon  came  quickly  and 
demurely  to  the  house;  a  ragged,  cringing  old  man 
was  standing  near  the  gates.  Renee  smiled  benevo- 
lently, and  with  a  certain  preoccupation  at  the 
youthful  group  on  the  doorstep. 

"I  will  be  ready  in  one  moment,"  she  said  in  her 
precise,  clear  English,  as  she  passed  them.  "One 
little  moment,"  she  repeated  hastening  upstairs, 
as  if  on  a  mysterious  holy  errand.  In  a  little 
moment  she  came  neatly  out  again,  and  with  no 
further  word  of  explanation  tripped  to  the  old  man, 
and  the  old  man  gratefully  took  something  from 
her  gloved  hand  with  its  curved  fingers,  and  made  an 
obeisance  and  departed  while  Renee  meticulously 
and  gently  shut  the  gates. 

Annunciata  did  not  approve  of  Renee  Souchon. 
Her  disapproval  was  calm  and  restrained,  and  she 
imparted  it  to  nobody  at  all,  but  It  was  very  genuine. 


ANNUNCIATA  113 

You  see  Annunciata  was  such  a  serious  girl.  She 
read  what  she  could;  and  she  thought  tremendously. 
The  whole  spectacle  of  life  offered  itself  for  her 
criticism;  and  she  criticized  it  with  much  freedom 
and  much  seriousness,  and  no  humour  whatever. 
She  gazed  at  it  as  though  it  had  never  been  gazed 
at  before  and  made  the  most  singular  discoveries. 
Thus  she  had  discovered  that  servants  are  exactly  as 
human  as  we  are,  and  have  the  same  right  to  wear 
jewellery  and  pretty  hats  and  to  discuss  men  as  we 
have;  to  force  servants  into  a  uniform  was  immoral 
because  tyrannous;  still  she  couldn't  imagine  her- 
self waited  on  at  table  by  a  crimson  blouse,  and  the 
question  of  servants'  clothing  was  one  of  the  few 
great  human  questions  of  which  in  the  privacy  of 
her  own  mind  she  had  no  solution  to  offer.  She 
believed  in  herself  intensely,  and  once  she  had 
thoroughly  pondered  upon  a  subject,  her  conclusions 
were  sacred  to  her.  The  notion  that  they  could  be 
wrong,  and  that  she  was  not  indeed  fully  equipped 
for  her  role  as  constructive  critic,  did  not  even  occur 
to  her.  People  who  happened  to  engage  her  in 
serious  conversation  were  astonished  at  the  range 
and  gravity  of  her  thoughts.  It  is  so  with  Innumer- 
able girls. 

The  advent  of  Renee  Souchon  nearly  a  year  ago 
had  raised  mighty  issues  in  the  breast  of  Annun- 
ciata,    Renee  was  an  outcome  of  the  sad  fact  that 


114  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

Charles  Fearns  junior  had  twice  failed  in  French  at 
the  Cambridge  Local  Examination.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Fearns  had  put  their  heads  together  and  decided 
that  at  any  rate  Frank  and  Sep  should  not  fail  in 
French.  The  children  had  to  have  a  nursery  govern- 
ess, and  therefore  they  should  have  a  French  nursery 
governess,  who  should  also  give  lessons  to  Annun- 
clata  in  that  language  so  essential  to  modern  English 
culture.  Really,  in  these  days  every  one  spoke 
French.  And  like  all  British  parents  in  a  similar 
predicament  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fearns  were  very  anxious 
that  when  Frank  and  Sep  spoke  French  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  be  mistaken  for  Frenchmen,  Frank 
and  Sep  should  be  mistaken  only  for  Parisians.  They 
insisted  on  the  "  good  accent.  '*  The  thought  of  Frank 
and  Sep  being  one  day  mistaken  in  France  for  natives 
of  Lyons  or  Bordeaux  was  painful  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Fearns.  Hence  Renee  Souchon,  a  guaranteed  Pa- 
risienne  with  a  guaranteed  accent  and  truly  ex- 
cellent testimonials,  had  come  into  Bursley  out  of 
the  void,  conjured  there  by  a  governess  agency  in 
London.  Renee  was  somewhat  of  an  innovation 
in  Bursley.  Bursley  approved.  The  progress  in 
French  was  not  quite  so  wonderful  as  had  been 
expected;  Annunciata  declined  to  attempt  to  talk 
French  outside  her  French  lesson,  and  Frank  and 
Sep,  despite  their  tender  years,  had  sufficient  per- 
sonal force  to  stipulate  that  French  should  cease 


ANNUNCIATA  115 

to  be  the  sole  medium  of  communication  at  one- 
thirty  p.  m.,  when  their  dinner  finished.  Still,  in 
three  months  the  children  could  understand  what- 
ever Renee  said  to  them,  and  other  children's 
parents  were  not  unimpressed.  And  neither  Mr. 
nor  Mrs.  Fearns  suspected  that  Annunciata,  guided 
by  lofty  general  principles,  disapproved.  For  of 
course  she  would  not  have  ventured  openly  to  criti- 
cize her  parents. 

Annunciata  was  very  English.  It  had  been 
vouchsafed  to  her  that  the  English  race  was  the 
masterstroke  of  the  eternal  powers.  The  very 
defects  of  the  English  were  good  qualities.  All 
other  races  were  inferior:  the  thing  was  obvious. 
And  if  there  was  one  other  race  that  Annunciata 
in  especial  contemned,  that  race  was  the  French. 
The  French  were  not  serious;  they  were  not  moral; 
they  were  frivolous.  You  could  not  rely  on  them. 
Their  women  were  dolls;  their  men  were  wicked, 
besides  being  paltry  and  grotesque  to  the  eye. 
Germany  had  humiliated  them  —  catch  Germany 
trying  to  humiliate  England !  —  and  there  they  were 
enjoying  themselves  and  "going  on"  as  though 
nothing  had  happened.  She  had  read  that  Parisian 
theatres  were  often  crowded  during  the  siege  of 
Paris.  That  settled  the  French,  so  far  as  Annun- 
ciata was  concerned. 

And  her  parents  had  summoned  into  her  English 


ii6  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

home  a  living  representative  of  the  dangerous  and 
despicable  French  spirit!  They  had  undertaken 
this  hazardous  experiment  for  the  trifling  end  of 
teaching  a  language  to  two  little  boys!  It  seemed 
to  Annunciata  unwise,  and  also  unnecessary.  She 
knew  why  Charlie  had  failed  in  French  —  simply 
because  he  hated  French  as  she  did.  He  could  have 
passed  if  he  had  tried.  He  decidedly  had  not 
failed  because  he  had  no  French  governess  in 
infancy.  Wherein  was  the  reasonableness  of  this 
craze  for  French.^  If  one  wanted  to  travel  there 
were  always  hotels  with  English-speaking  waiters. 
And  the  French  had  no  Dickens,  no  Thackeray, 
no  Scott,  no  Tennyson,  They  had  Racine  and 
Corneille,  and  Annunciata  did  not  opine  that  it 
was  worth  while  to  learn  French  in  order  to  read 
Racine  and  Corneille. 

In  short,  while  determined  to  be  scrupulously 
just,  even  to  the  point  of  generosity,  in  adding  up 
the  French  governess,  Annunciata  had  had  an  In- 
ward conviction  that  she  should  not  like  her.  And 
she  did  not.  She  did  not  like  her  corsets,  which  she 
more  than  once  by  accident  saw.  Renee  was 
blonde  and  somewhat  stout,  and  not  very  tall; 
neither  ugly  nor  pretty;  and  her  age  was  quite 
thirty.  She  used  powder.  Annunciata  had  never 
anticipated  that  the  day  would  come  when  she  would 
inhabit  the  same  house  with  a  woman  who  used 


ANNUNCIATA  117 

powder.  But  It  had  come.  Her  dressing-table  was 
a  sight!  Now,  could  a  woman  who  used  powder 
and  wore  those  scandalous  corsets  be  the  prim  and 
religious  woman  that  Renee  pretended  to  he^  An- 
nunclata,  having  lately  been  attracted  toward  the 
creed  of  Christian  Science,  was  all  for  religious 
liberty.  But  Renee  was  a  Roman  Catholic.  She 
went  to  low  mass,  and  high  mass.  And  she  posi- 
tively went  to  confession.  Annunclata  did  not 
care  to  think  of  the  private  life  of  her  home  being 
exposed  to  Father  Hurley.  Roman  Catholicism 
was  not  a  sincere  religion,  like  other  religions. 

Then  there  was  the  question  of  Renee's  charities. 
Annunclata  was  obliged  to  admit  that  the  Fearns's 
household  did  not  expend  much  of  its  energy  in 
charity,  perhaps  rather  neglected  that  duty,  in 
fact  did  neglect  it.  But  she  did  not  wish  to  be  re- 
minded of  duty  by  Renee  Souchon.  Moreover 
charity  ought  to  be  a  pleasure,  not  a  duty.  Renee 
made  of  charity  a  regular  occupation.  She  had  her 
days  for  rummaging  among  the  Catholic  poor  of 
the  town;  she  would  recount  her  adventures  sadly 
at  the  dinner-table,  and,  without  a  single  direct 
word  against  England,  or  the  country  or  the  district, 
she  would  tacitly  formulate  a  terrible  indictment 
of  our  social  organism.  Apparently  matters  were 
quite  different  in  France;  apparently  France  was 
civilized,  whereas  England  was  just  emerging  from 


ii8  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

a  sort  of  viking  barbarism:  such  was  the  implication, 
unexpressed  of  course.  Annunciata's  Saxon  blood 
raged  impotently  within  her.  Annunciata  was  sure 
that  the  high  pulpit  from  which  Renee  silently 
preached  did  not  cost  the  preacher  in  money  more 
than  a  shilling  a  week;  and  she  detested  Renee's 
queenly  condescending  compassionate  gesture  in 
giving  a  halfpenny  to  a  mendicant.  She  was  ab- 
solutely convinced  that  Renee,  with  her  impeccable 
demeanour,  her  frigid  and  changeless  propriety,  and 
her  manifold  Christian  virtues,  was  a  two-faced 
creature.  She  dreamed  occasionally  of  Jesuits! 
And  this  woman  was  in  their  home,  part  of  their 
home,  and  influencing  from  morn  to  night  the  im- 
pressionable characters  of  Frank  and  Sep!  An- 
nunciata's blind,  bland  parents  were  oblivious  of 
the  evil  that  was  being  wrought!  And  Annunciata 
could  not  interfere. 

What  annoyed  Annunciata  more  than  anything 
else  was  the  instinctive  knowledge  that  Renee  re- 
garded her  as  a  raw  young  girl  whom  a  very  little 
diplomatic  skill  could  manage.  She  hated  to  admit 
to  herself  that  Renee  was  a  vastly  cleverer  and  subt- 
ler person  than  herself,  but  there  were  times  when 
she  did  admit  it. 

And  with  it  all  Annunciata  in  the  secrecy  of  her 
kind  little  heart  felt  ineffably  sorry  for  the  poor 
French  governess.     Annunciata's  pity  was  sometimes 


ANNUNCIATA  119 

almost  too  painful  to  be  borne,  and  she  would  turn 
away  from  the  contemplation  of  Renee's  plight  as 
one  turns  away  from  the  spectacle  of  a  miserable 
outcast  in  the  street  on  a  wintry  night,  when  one 
drives  by  enveloped  in  furs.  For  Renee  was  a 
solitary.  Renee  had  no  kindred  to  love  her,  no  home, 
no  ties,  nothing  to  cling  to.  She  was  a  wanderer. 
She  existed  in  the  Fearns  house  essentially  a  stranger, 
familiar  but  not  intimate.  She  could  not  enter  into 
its  joys  and  sorrows;  she  was  not  expected  to  do  so. 
They  all  tried  to  be  good  to  her,  and  to  give  her  the 
illusion  of  being  at  home.  But  she  merely  camped 
among  them,  as  she  might  have  camped  in  the  desert 
of  Sahara.  Often  in  the  evenings  she  would  retire 
early,  and  her  retirement  was  a  relief!  What  irony, 
then,  was  their  goodness!  Renee's  lamp  burned 
very  late.  Once  Annunciata  had  gone  into  her 
room,  and  found  her  sitting  up  in  bed,  wrapped  in  a 
dressing  gown,  with  her  pillows  at  her  back,  reading 
The  Heir  of  Redcliffe;  it  wa.s  in  January;  she  had 
steadfastly  refused  a  fire,  but  after  that  Annunciata 
had  insisted,  passionately,  that  a  gas  stove  should 
be  fixed  in  the  room,  and  evening  after  evening  had 
lighted  it  herself  until  at  length  Renee  promised  with- 
out fail  to  use  it.  The  picture  of  the  woman  read- 
ing there  in  thick  folds  of  woolen,  lonely,  withdrawn, 
proud,  with  the  lamp  rays  falling  on  the  bed  and  the 
rest  of  the  room   in  obscurity,  had  lacerated  the 


I20  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

tender  soul  of  Annunciata.  .  .  .  And  Ranee's  life 
would  always  be  like  that,  if  not  in  their  house  then 
in  some  other,  perhaps  in  some  house  less  kindly  than 
theirs!  And  she  would  grow  old  and  gray.  And 
people  would  not  want  her.  And  then  what.^ 
Then  what?  Annunciata  thanked  her  scientifically 
conceived  gods  that  she  was  not  a  governess. 

She  followed  the  procession  of  children  and  govern- 
ess upstairs,  and  went  to  her  own  room  to  prepare 
for  dinner.  There  could  be  no  doubt  about  the 
fact  that  Mademoiselle  was  extremely  skillful  in  her 
profession.  Annunciata  was  sure  that  Frank  and 
Sep  did  not  adore  Mademoiselle,  but  they  obeyed 
her  without  hating  her.  And  she  was  never  flurried, 
never  angry;  she  never  even  raised  her  voice.  Mrs. 
Fearns  could  control  her  tumultuous  offspring  pretty 
well,  yet  even  Annunciata  would  not  have  asserted 
that  the  mother  had  nothing  to  learn  from  the 
governess  in  this  matter.  A  conspicuous  instance 
of  Mademoiselle's  extraordinary  powers  occurred 
when  the  procession  arrived  in  the  bathroom. 
She  turned  on  the  taps  of  the  bath,  and  then  told 
Frank  to  begin  undressing  and  put  his  clothes  on 
one  chair  and  Sep  to  begin  undressing  and  put  his 
clothes  on  another  chair;  and  then  she  imperturb- 
ably  left  them  in  order  to  remove  her  own  hat  and 
jacket  and  don  an  apron.  It  was  a  feat  of  apparent 
bravado,  such  as  the  lion-tamer  accomplishes  when 


ANNUNCIATA  121 

he   sticks    his    head    between   the    lion's   jaws.     If 
Annunciata  had  dared  to  attempt  it  the  result  v/ould 
have  been  disastrous  —  waste-plug  pulled  out,  the 
bath  probably  full  of  clothes,  and  both  lavatory  taps 
turned   on   to   overflow   the   lavatory   basin.     But 
Mademoiselle  went  unhasting  back  to  the  bathroom 
in   full   confidence   that   the   children   would   have 
withstood  the  terrible  temptations  which  she  had 
set  before  them;  and  the  confidence  was  justified. 
Presently  Annunciata  from  the  window  saw  her 
father  coming  into  the  house.     And  she  hurried  her 
toilette.     In  the  absence  of  her  mother  she  consid- 
ered she  had  to  be  more  than  a  daughter  to  her 
father,  that  she  had  to  be  more  grown-up,  more 
like  her  mother  to  him.     She  must  watch  over  him, 
hover  round  him,  distract  him,  conduct  herself  so 
that  her  mother  was   missed   as   little   as   possible. 
She  heard  the  front  door  bang  loudly;   her  father 
always  banged  the  front  door.     He  would  be  coming 
upstairs  directly.     The  door  of  her  own  room  was 
carelessly  left  wide  open;  the  bathroom  door  also 
was  open,  and  there  reached   her  from  the  bath- 
room the  splendid  and  miscellaneous  splashing  and 
shouting  which  Mademoiselle  permlted   each  night 
to  her  charges.     The  children  were  now  shouting 
for  father;  they  too  had  heard  the  thunderous  bang- 
ing  of   the    front  door.     Mademoiselle  was    being 
exhorted  to  go  and  fetch  father  to  see  a  wonderful 


122  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

wound  on  Sep's  knee.  Annunciata  pushed  her  door 
nearly  to,  and  from  sheer  girlishness  peeped  through 
the  inch-wide  space  which  she  had  left.  She  meant 
to  call  out  to  her  father  concerning  the  telegram  as 
he  passed  to  his  bedroom.  She  saw  Mademoiselle's 
aproned  figure  as  it  descended  the  three  steps  from 
the  bathroom  to  the  level  of  the  passage.  At 
the  same  moment  her  father  appeared  up  the  stairs. 
The  two  encountered  one  another  on  the  dusky 
landing  at  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

"The  children  would  like  to  see  you,"  said 
Mademoiselle. 

Then  Annunciata  saw  her  father  glance  round  and 
raise  his  hand  and  caressingly  pat  Mademoiselle's 
cheek.  The  gesture  was  an  affair  of  half  a  second. 
Mademoiselle's  face  seemed  to  protest  against  the 
imprudence  of  the  act.  But  she  smiled  in  a  way 
quite  novel  to  the  watcher  behind  the  door.  Annun- 
ciata could  not  see  her  father's  face  at  the  instant  of 
the  caress. 

"Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Fearns. 

And  they  disappeared  into  the  bathroom. 

Annunciata,  with  crimson  cheeks  and  neck,  and 
heart  wildly  thumping,  moved  from  her  door  to  the 
window.  In  her  gentle  and  rather  self-satisfied 
progress  from  birth  toward  death  she  had  suddenly 
received  a  staggering,  dizzying  blow  —  she  who  had 
been  used  to  nothing  worse  than  glimpses  of  real 


ANNUNCIATA  123 

pain  —  and  some  minutes  elapsed  before  she  could 
resume  her  shaken  faculties  and  think.  She  loved 
and  admired  her  father;  she  was  proud  of  him. 
She  found  him  handsome,  and  she  was  delighted 
when  people  said  he  looked  young  enough  to  be  her 
brother.  He  was  dashing,  gallant,  generally  gay, 
and  he  spoiled  her  —  there  could  not  be  two  opinions 
about  that.  He  had  a  kind  heart,  like  hers.  But  it 
would  have  been  too  much  to  expect  that  even  her 
father  should  pass  wholly  unimpeached  before  the 
ruthless  tribunal  of  her  young  judgment:  only  her 
mother  could  do  that.  She  privately  censured  him 
for  a  certain  lightness,  a  lack  of  seriousness,  also 
for  leaving  her  mother  too  frequently  alone  in  the 
evenings;  and  she  objected  to  his  playing  cards  for 
money.  His  occasional  short,  sharp,  unreasonable 
outbursts  of  wrath  she  was  ready  to  excuse  as  an 
inevitable  part  of  the  unreasonable  masculine  tem- 
perament, but  she  could  not  in  her  terrific  honesty 
excuse  the  other  things.  She  forgave  them  con- 
stantly; so  that  her  attitude  toward  her  father  was 
often  a  little  maternal  and  angelically  grieved. 

And  her  father  had  done  something  really  very 
wrong  indeed.  She  was  sure  that  it  was  very  wrong 
and  utterly  inexcusable  for  the  master  of  the  house 
to  pat  a  governess  on  the  cheek.  She  did  not  need 
to  be  told  that.  Supposing  a  servant  had  seen  them ! 
And  it  was  the  last  indiscretion  of  which  she  would 


124  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

have  deemed  her  father  capable,  because  he  was 
always  so  dignified  and  correct,  especially  with 
women.  He  might  neglect  her  mother,  but  his 
mere  behaviour  to  her  was  almost  invariably  what 
it  ought  to  be.  He  was  in  fact  at  his  best  with 
women,  so  thoughtful,  so  courteous,  so  appreciative! 
And  here  he  was  patting  a  governess  on  the  cheek, 
losing  his  own  self-respect  and  robbing  her  of  hers! 
A  pat  on  the  cheek,  said  Annunciata,  was  nothing, 
regarded  as  a  pat.  But  such  a  thing  ought  not  to 
be.  It  was  not  a  bit  nice.  It  was  odious.  An 
indiscretion  yes,  but  there  were  indiscretions  that 
were  worse  than  crimes!  She  would  have  infinitely 
preferred  to  convict  her  father  of  getting  drunk 
and  knocking  a  man  down  than  to  convict  him  of 
that  pat. 

And  her  mother  absent,  too!  That  appeared,  in 
some  way  that  was  very  mysterious  to  Annunciata, 
to  make  the  Indiscretion  more  Indiscreet. 

As  for  Renee,  Annunciata's  intellect  blamed  her 
less  than  it  blamed  the  man,  but  Annunciata's 
heart  blamed  her  a  great  deal  more.  She  was  as- 
tounded at  Renee's  conduct.  Renee  ought  to  have 
—  ought  to  have  done  what. ^  Screamed.?  Walked 
straight  out  of  the  house.?  Told  her  employer  that 
his  behaviour  was  Infamous.?  .  .  .  Annunciata 
could  not  exactly  decide  what  Renee  ought  to  have 
done.    But  she  ought  to  have  done  anything  rather 


ANNUNCIATA  125 

than  smile.  Anyhow,  Annunciata  had  always  been 
convinced  that  Renee  was  two-faced,  and  now  she 
had  the  proof.     And  yet  the  proof  astounded  her! 

She  knew  nothing  of  her  father's  reputation  in 
the  world  where  men  talk.  Though  by  no  means 
ignorant,  she  was  as  ignorant  as  a  girl  can  be  who 
has  been  to  school,  and  glanced  occasionally  at  the 
newspapers,  and  assisted  distantly  at  the  birth  of 
babies,  and  reached  the  age  of  twenty.  And  by 
nature  she  was  innocent.  By  nature  it  was  ex- 
cessively difficult  for  her  to  think  impurely.  If  to 
have  a  very  weak  sexual  instinct  is  to  be  pure, 
Annunciata  was  pure.  Her  purity  was  not  shocked 
by  what  she  had  seen,  for  the  reason  that  she  had 
simply  not  seen  it  in  a  sexual  aspect  at  all.  It  had 
not  occurred  to  her  to  regard  that  caressing  pat  as  a 
symptom,  as  one  act  in  a  series  of  acts.  She  re- 
garded it  by  itself,  as  an  unpleasant  but  isolated 
indiscretion. 

And  what  was  she  to  do  with  the  secret  of  which 
she  had  unwillingly  become  possessed?  Ought  she 
to  tell  her  mother.''  Or  rather,  could  she  bring  her- 
self to  tell  her  mother.''  Could  she  tell  her  father 
that  she  had  seen  him,  and  express  to  him  her  re- 
spectful but  uncompromising  disapproval?  Or 
could  she  give  Renee  a  private  hint  that  would 
lead  to  the  voluntary  departure  of  Renee?  In 
the  midst  of  all  her  pain,  confusion,  and  outraged 


126  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

propriety,  Annunclata  was  conscious  of  a  strong 
desire  to  act  wisely,  prudently,  for  the  best.  She 
wanted  to  prove  to  herself  that  she  was  equal  to  the 
situation,  and  that  she  was  no  ordinary  girl.  The 
feeling,  however,  that  she  was  quite  unequal  to  the 
situation  unfortunately  dominated  her.  She  did 
not  know  what  to  do.  And  her  mother  seemed  so 
far  away. 

She  sat  a  long  time  on  the  bed,  hot,  quivering, 
suffering,  shamed.  She  wished  she  had  never  been 
born.  She  thought  she  could  never  look  any  one  in 
the  face  again.  The  life  of  the  house  proceeded  as 
usual.  Her  father  came  out  of  the  bathroom  and 
passed  to  his  bedroom  and  then  went  downstairs. 
The  children  padded  from  the  bathroom  to  the 
nursery,  chattering.  Doors  closed  and  opened. 
The  light  began  to  fail.  She  heard  the  explosion  of 
the  gas  as  a  servant  lighted  it  in  the  hall.  A  gong 
sounded.  " Faites  dodo,''  she  heard  Renee  say, 
shutting  the  door  of  the  nursery.  And  then  sud- 
denly she  sprang  up,  and  bathed  her  eyes,  and  went 
haughtily  downstairs.  She  had  taken  refuge  in  an 
immense  pride.  She  summoned  all  her  powers  of 
duplicity  —  and  like  most  women  of  her  tempera- 
ment she  was  in  this  respect  richly  endowed  —  to 
hoodwink  her  father  and  Renee.  On  entering  the 
dining-room,  she  first  gave  an  order  to  Louisa  the 
parlour  maid,  in  a  rather  curt,  preoccupied  voice, 


ANNUNCIATA  127 

as  though  the  cares  of  the  household  still  weighed 
heavily  upon  her.  She  meant  to  produce  this 
impression  on  her  father,  and  she  succeeded  per- 
fectly.  He  was  standing  on  the  hearthrug,  waiting. 

"Now,  Tommy,"  he  said,  indicating  that  he 
desired  his  dinner. 

She  looked  him  fairly  in  the  face  and  smiled  guard- 
edly, as  if  to  warn  him  that  she  was  mistress  of  the 
house  to-day,  and  he  must  be  careful  how  he  used 
his  disrespectful  pet-name  for  her. 

"Any  news  from  your  mother?"  he  demanded. 

"Yes,  dad,"  she  replied,  and  took  the  telegram 
from  her  pocket  and  gave  it  to  him. 

"What's  this  writing  on  the  back.^"  he  inquired. 

"That's  a  copy  of  my  reply  to  mother,"  she  said. 

Meanwhile  she  was  moving  her  cover  from  its 
ordinary  position  to  the  empty  place  which  was  her 
mother's. 

"Good!"  murmured  her  father,  putting  the  crum- 
pled telegram  on  the  mantelpiece.  "What  are 
you  doing.  Tommy.'*" 

"I'm  going  to  sit  opposite  you,"  said  Annunciata 
calmly,  sitting  down  and  pushing  the  flower  vases 
into  new  latitudes. 

Mademoiselle  came  into  the  room,  and  dinner 
began. 

How  Mademoiselle  could  have  the  audacity  to 
come    and    take    her   seat   as    though    nothing   had 


128  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

happened,  Annunciata  could  not  imagine.  The 
governess's  air  was  absolutely  demure,  as  usual. 
She  looked  down  at  her  plate  over  the  beetling  preci- 
pice of  her  corsage  just  as  usual.  She  talked  just  as 
usual;  Mr.  Fearns  also;  yes,  and  Annunciata  also. 
If  these  two  could  dissemble,  so  could  she.  If 
these  two  were  a  man  and  a  woman  who  had  seen 
the  world,  and  she  was  a  little  thing  who  knew  noth- 
ing, nevertheless  she  could  match  them  at  their  own 
game.  And  she  did.  The  pat  grew  unreal,  im- 
possible, the  pat  of  a  dream.  Should  she  tell  her 
mother?  Or  should  she  try  to  forget  it-f*  Her  gaze 
wandered  round  the  heavy  oak  solidity  of  the  dining- 
room,  and  she  felt  the  thick  Turkey  carpet  under 
her  feet.  Everything  was  real,  homely,  unchanged; 
and  yet  by  moments,  just  as  the  memory  of  the  pat 
seemed  a  dream,  so  the  very  house  seemed  insub- 
stantial and  illusory. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  dinner  there  was  a  peculiar 
noise  outside  the  door. 

"What's  that.^"'  Fearns  exclaimed. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  Master  Frank  and  Master  Sep, 
sir,"  answered  the  servant,  smiling  faintly. 

And  those  two  imps,  in  nothing  but  their  night- 
shirts, plunged  into  the  room,  crying  that  father  had 
promised  them  chocolates  and  had  forgotten.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  their  father's  visit  to  the  bath- 
room  had   unduly   excited   them,  encouraged  them 


ANNUNCIATA  129 

to  a  deed  which  was  rash  even  for  them.  But  in 
their  father's  presence  they  never  had  any  fear  of 
Mademoiselle. 

Both  women  sprang  up  together  with  exclamations 
of  horror. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Fearns  with  awful  solem- 
nity, "is  this  the  way  you  bring  up  my  boys.''" 

But  the  boys  were  not  to  be  misled  by  mock- 
heroics.  They  were  already  pulling  at  his  knees, 
inarticulate,  joyous,  triumphantly  grinning.  The 
knees  were  sanctuary  from  Mademoiselle,  who 
glanced  at  them  undecided  what  to  do. 

"This  is  what  comes  of  your  mother  being  away," 
said  Fearns.  "But  she  shall  be  told.  She  shall  be 
told."  And  he  reached  forward  to  the  silver  dish 
in  the  middle  of  the  table  containing  chocolates. 

"Mr.  Fearns!"  Mademoiselle  protested. 

"Well,  I  did  promise  them,  you  know,"  said 
Fearns,  as  he  put  one  chocolate  into  each  mouth. 
"Now  hook  it!"  he  shouted.  "Hook  it!  Or  by  the 
beard  of  the  prophet  I'll " 

They  ran  off,  delighted  with  themselves.  Made- 
moiselle made  as  if  to  follow. 

"  ril  go, "  said  Annunciata.  "  I'll  look  after  them." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  the  governess.  "Not  at 
all " 

"I'll  go,"  Annunciata  repeated  firmly. 

And  she  did  go.     And  upstairs,  because  Sep  did 


I30  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

not  Instantly  get  into  bed,  she  smacked  him  and  he 
cried,  and  she  said  it  served  him  right.  And  gloom 
descended  upon  the  nursery. 

She  went  downstairs  very  quietly  and  entered 
the  dining-room  with  suddenness,  fearing  what  she 
might  see;  her  father  sat  there  alone. 

"Where's  Mademoiselle?"  she  asked  him. 

"Don't  know.  Drawing-room,  I  expect.  Chil- 
dren all  right?" 

She  nodded,  and  began  to  eat  an  apple. 

The  sound  of  the  piano  came  from  the  drawing- 
room. 

"Have  some  fruit,   dad?"     She  smiled   at  him. 

"No,  thanks,"  he  said,  and  lit  a  cigar. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  to-night?"  she  asked. 

"What  do  you  want  to  know  for?" 

"  I  thought  perhaps  you  might  like  to  take  me  to 
the  theatre  to  see  Patience. " 

"No,  thanks,"  he  said  drily.  She  was  hurt. 
"I'm  going  to  the  club  in  a  minute,"  he  added. 

She  was  extremely  hurt  by  his  tone,  but  she  would 
not  show  it.  She  went  into  the  drawing-room  and 
sat  down.  Mademoiselle  continued  to  play  the 
piano,  some  waltzes  by  Waldteufel.  The  front- 
door banged.     Annunciata  rang  the  bell. 

"Is  father  gone  out?"  she  demanded  of  Louisa 
sharply. 

"Yes,  miss." 


ANNUNCIATA  131 

Annunciata  looked  through  The  GirVs  Realm 
from  the  first  page  to  the  last,  comprehending  not  a 
word.  The  house  was  strangely  and  disturbingly- 
empty  without  her  mother.  She  felt  it  more  than 
ever  now. 

"Good  night,"  said  Renee  abruptly,  rising  and 
leaving. 

Five  minutes  later  Annunciata  went  to  the  kitchen 
to  give  final  orders  for  the  night,  and  she  too  as- 
cended to  bed.     It  was  scarcely  nine  o'clock. 

Annunciata's  bedroom  was  spacious;  it  occupied 
a  corner  of  the  first  story,  and  had  two  windows, 
one  overlooking  the  front  garden.  The  bed  also 
was  spacious,  for  during  school  vacations  she  was 
obliged  to  share  it  with  Emily,  a  chit  of  fifteen. 
Emily  referred  to  the  bedroom  as  "ours,"  but 
Annunciata  obstinately  regarded  her  as  a  guest  in 
that  room.  Annunciata  had  chosen  the  wall  paper, 
and  the  blue  eiderdown  on  the  bed,  and  the  rug 
by  the  side  of  the  bed.  And  she  had  caused  the 
furniture,  originally  of  a  Regent  Street  green,  to  be 
enamelled  white.  Most  of  Annunciata's  books  were 
ranged  in  a  small  hanging  bookcase,  bought  with 
her  own  money,  over  a  microscopic  writing-bureau 
given  to  her  by  her  mother.  The  photogravures 
on  the  walls  were  every  one  Annunciata's  private 
property;    there    were    two    Maude    Goodmans,    a 


132  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

Virgin  and  Child  wrongly  attributed  hy  Annunciata 
and  the  authorities  of  the  Louvre  to  Botticelli, 
Burne-Jones's  "Golden  Stairs,"  two  Orchardsons, 
and  some  minor  items  with  interesting  personal 
associations.  On  the  night  table  by  the  bed  v/ere 
about  a  dozen  books  and  a  silk-covered  photograph 
frame  containing  portraits  of  her  father  and  mother. 
Hung  above  the  table  was  another  and  more  im- 
posing portrait  of  her  mother,  signed.  Photographs 
and  knicknacks  abounded  everywhere  in  the  cham- 
ber; a  few  of  the  photographs  had  already  begun  to 
fade,  showing  that  even  Annunciata  was  not  as  young 
as  she  had  been.  The  history  of  her  life  and  opinions 
was  written  at  large  in  the  bedroom.  It  was  the 
■  expression  of  herself;  and  she  was  intensely  proud  of 
it,  and  intensely  jealous  for  its  sanctity.  The 
servants  were  allowed  only  to  make  the  bed  and  sweep 
the  carpet;  the  dusting  was  done  by  Annunciata. 
She  was  not  a  very  orderly  girl,  but  in  that  apart- 
ment she  had  a  place  for  everything,  to  the  tiniest 
trifle,  and  if  by  accident  a  servant  deranged  a  pin- 
cushion or  a  china  slipper,  there  was  the  very  deuce 
to  pay.  She  entered  the  room  as  she  might  have 
entered  a  fortress;  when  she  shut  the  door  she  sighed 
with  satisfaction,  shutting  it  on  all  the  world. 

That  night  she  meant  to  find  moral  help  in  a  book; 
but  she  could  not  read.  Then,  having  put  on  a 
dressing  gown,  she  thought  she  would  write  to  her 


ANNUNCIATA  133 

mother,  on  the  chance  of  her  mother  not  being  able  to 
return  on  the  morrow;  but  she  could  not  write, 
though  she  had  had  no  intention  of  referring  to  the 
pat  in  her  letter.  She  could  not  control  her  mind. 
At  length  she  turned  down  the  gas  to  a  speck  and 
got  into  bed,  and  gave  her  mind  free  play.  Should 
she  tell  her  mother?  Or  should  she  swear  to  herself 
to  forget  what  she  had  seen?  All  at  once  a  method 
of  solving  the  question  occurred  to  her.  She  must 
put  herself  on  one  side,  and  act  as  her  mother 
would  wish  her  to  act.  It  seemed  to  her  that  her 
mother  would  certainly  not  wish  to  be  kept  in 
ignorance  of  the  incident.  Therefore  she  must  tell, 
at  no  matter  what  personal  pain.  And  she  suddenly 
decided  to  tell.  But  she  would  begin  by  exacting 
from  her  mother  a  promise  of  absolute  secrecy.  She 
could  not  have  borne  that  her  father  should  know  of 
her  knowledge.  Yes,  she  would  say  to  her  mother: 
"Mother,  I've  got  something  to  tell  you,  but  you 
must  promise  me  not  to  say  anything  to  any  one 
about  it."  And  then  she  would  go  to  the  window 
or  look  at  a  picture  while  she  told  her  mother.  Her 
one  desire  now  was  for  her  mother's  speedy  return, 
so  that  she  might  finish  with  the  affair.  At  this 
point  she  went  to  sleep,  lying  on  her  back,  whereas 
she  usually  slept  on  her  left  side. 

She  woke  up  with  a  start.     Rain  was  beating  on 
the  window  nearest  the  bed.     Perhaps  it  was  the 


134  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

rain  that  had  wakened  her.  She  was  wide  awake. 
She  rose  out  of  bed,  and  as  she  did  so  the  clock  in 
the  hall  struck  twelve.  She  went  to  the  front  win- 
dow, and  lifted  the  blind  an  inch  or  so  and  looked 
out.  Through  the  low  trees  that  screened  the  gar- 
den from  Lawton  Street  she  could  see  a  light  here 
and  there  in  windows  of  the  small  houses  opposite. 
She  could  hear  the  thunder  of  the  electric  train  in 
Trafalgar  Road.  Then  the  garden  gates  clicked 
and  she  descried  a  mysterious  form  crossing  the 
garden.  It  was  her  father,  returned  from  the  club. 
He  had  no  umbrella,  and  his  head  was  bent  and  his 
hands  apparently  in  the  pockets  of  his  overcoat. 
She  heard  the  closing  of  the  front  door.  .  .  .  What 
obscure  Instinct  made  her  creep  to  her  own  door  and 
listen?  She  listened  a  long  time.  Not  a  sound, 
her  father  must  have  gone  straight  to  the  dining 
room.  At  last  he  came  upstairs,  in  his  slippers, 
deliberately,  calmly;  he  paused  an  instant  to  lower 
the  gas  on  the  landing,  and  went  by  her  door  to  his 
own  room.  Then,  after  an  interval,  a  door  closed 
softly;  then  utter  silence  in  the  house.  The  clock 
in  the  hall  struck  half  past  twelve. 

The  first-floor  corridors  formed  a  right  angle  at 
Annunciata's  door.  When  she  stood  at  her  open 
door  she  looked  down  the  corridor  leading  to  the 
head  of  the  principal  stairs,  and  the  flight  of  stairs 
from  the  first-floor  to  the  second-floor  ran  parallel 


ANNUNCIATA  135 

with  this  corridor,  the  stairs  beginning  just  opposite 
her  door.  On  the  left  of  the  same  corridor  were  two 
doors,  of  a  small  spare  bedroom  and  of  the  day- 
nursery,  and  finally  the  recess  leading  to  the  bath- 
room. The  other  corridor  was  broader  and  more 
important;  it  cut  through  the  main  part  of  the  house 
and  ended  in  a  window.  Starting  from  this  corner, 
there  were,  first,  Annunciata's  door,  then  the  door 
of  her  mother's  bedroom,  and  then  that  of  her 
father's  bedroom.  Her  parents'  bedrooms  com- 
municated one  with  the  other,  and  indeed  the  door 
giving  access  to  her  mother's  room  from  the  cor- 
ridor was  always  locked,  her  mother  entering  and 
leaving  by  her  father's  room,  which  was  a  corner- 
room  corresponding  to  Annunciata's.  On  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  corridor  were  two  doors,  of  the 
night  nursery  and  of  Renee's  bedroom.  These 
two  rooms  also  intercommunicated,  and  at  night 
the  door  between  them  was  left  open  so  that  Renee 
might  have  cognizance  of  anything  unusual  in  the 
nursery;  the  unusual  often  happened  In  that 
nursery.  The  door  between  the  corridor  and  Renee's 
bedroom  was  exactly  opposite  Mr.  Fearns's  door. 

The  Idea  of  the  proximity  of  those  two  doors 
seized  the  pure  girl  and  as  It  were,  gripped  her  by 
the  throat.  There  in  the  night  all  was  changed; 
the  simplest  things  became  sinister;  the  most  in- 
nocent things  became  vile.    She  wanted  her  mother's 


136  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

presence  more  than  she  had  ever  wanted  anything 
in  all  her  life.  She  could  hear  nothing  whatever, 
and  yet  the  strange  mysterious  instinct  to  go  out 
into  the  corridor  was  very  strong.  The  caressing 
pat  grew  immense  with  a  terrible  significance;  it 
pointed  to  a  past,  now  and  it  pointed  to  a  future; 
it  no  longer  stood  by  itself.  Why  had  her 
father  spoken  to  her  so  curtly  after  dinner .»* 
Why  had  Renee  left  the  dinner  table  with 
such  abruptness  and  gone  to  play  the  piano  in  the 
drawing-room  f  Renee  never  played  the  piano  in  the 
evening,  and  she  nearly  always  lingered  at  the  dinner 
table  eating  nuts,  of  which  she  was  very  fond. 
Annunciata  had  no  clear  conjectures;  she  could 
formulate  no  definite  surmise.  But  her  soul  was 
filled  with  a  vague  and  incomprehensible  horror. 
She  loathed  herself  as  she  recalled  Renee's  smile, 
Renee's  rich  curves.  And  the  recollection  of  Renee 
reclining  against  two  pillows  with  the  lamplight 
on  her  blonde  face  and  hair,  a  recollection  once 
pathetic  enough  to  rouse  her  keen  sympathy,  now 
shocked  and  repelled  her. 

She  crept  into  bed  and  put  her  head  under  the 
clothes,  desolate,  miserable,  and  agonized.  Heavy 
was  the  account  she  had  then  against  her  dashing, 
chivalrous  father!  She  felt  that  in  a  moment  of 
criminal  indiscretion  he  had  changed  the  whole  of 
her  life  for  her.     Her  head  gradually  emerged  from 


ANNUNCIATA  137 

the  clothes  and  she  lay  staring  with  burning,  blink- 
ing eyes  at  the  blackness  of  the  ceiling.  And  the 
clock  struck  once  or  twice. 

Then  she  sat  up,  as  if  stabbed.  Had  she  or  had 
she  not  heard  a  sound.?  Was  it  a  door  shutting, 
or  the  creak  of  a  floor  under  a  footstep.'*  Or  had 
she  fancied  it.'*  She  could  not  be  sure.  But  now 
some  force,  apparently  external,  took  hold  of  her. 
She  slipped  cautiously  out  of  bed,  groped  for  her 
dressing  gown,  and  put  it  on.  She  tiptoed  to  the 
door,  unlocked  it  with  infinite  careful  slowness, 
and  Inch  by  inch  opened  It;  and  listened.  There 
was  no  sound  of  any  kind  except  the  ticking  of  the 
clock  in  the  hall.  The  gas  jet  on  the  wall  between 
the  servants'  staircase  and  the  door  of  the  night 
nursery  burnt  low.  It  was  never  turned  completely 
out  at  night  lest  Renee  might  have  need  of  it  for  the 
children.  Annunclata  took  courage  and  stood 
boldly  on  her  mat,  and  as  her  eyes  grew  accustomed 
to  the  twilight  she  examined  each  door,  leaning 
forward.  The  door  of  the  night  nursery  had  been 
left  slightly  open,  as  usual.  Renee's  door  was  also 
ajar;  her  father's  was  shut.  Annunclata  was  sure 
that  when  she  came  to  bed  Renee's  door  had  been 
a  little  less  ajar. 

The  awful  force  not  herself  (or  was  it  the  pro- 
foundest  part  of  herself?)  impelled  her  across  the 
corridor  to  the  door  of  the  night  nursery,  which  she 


138  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

pushed  open.  In  that  room  too  a  gas  jet  was 
burning  blue.  She  hesitated  a  long  time,  listening, 
and  then  she  raised  the  gas.  Side  by  side  in  their 
cots  Frank  and  Sep  were  sleeping  the  exquisite 
soft  sleep  of  infancy.  Their  little  chubby  hands 
were  clenched,  and  their  little  red  pouting  lips  apart. 
On  Sep*s  flushed  cheeks  were  the  marks  of  the  tears 
that  his  hard-hearted  sister  had  made  him  shed. 
And  the  repose  of  these  two  irrespressible  organisms 
was  so  perfect  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  de- 
tect their  breathing.  The  door  between  the  nursery 
and  Renee's  bedroom  was  wide  open.  Annunciata 
coughed  discreetly.  Then  she  stole  into  the  bed- 
room. The  gas  from  the  nursery  illuminated  it 
sufficiently  for  Annunciata  to  make  sure  that  it 
was  empty.  The  bed  had  been  occupied;  Renee's 
clothes,  including  the  famous  corset,  were  scattered 
about. 

The  perspiration  stood  on  Annunciata's  forehead ; 
currents  of  electricity  seemed  to  course  through 
her  flowing  hair.  Her  heart  beat  like  a  hammer. 
She  tried  to  listen,  and  she  could  hear  nothing  but 
her  heart.  She  had  not  conceived  the  possibility  of 
such  sufi"ering  as  she  then  endured.  After  a  moment 
she  returned  to  the  nursery,  lowered  the  light,  and 
with  a  thousand  precautions  regained  her  own  room. 
And,  arrived  there,  she  fixed  the  door  so  as  to  leave 
a  crack  of  a  quarter  of  an  inch,  and  she  placed  her 


ANNUNCIATA  139 

eye  to  that  crack,  thus  commanding  the  whole 
corridor.  And  with  the  tremendous,  bitter,  ruth- 
less patience  of  a  woman  mortally  Injured,  she 
waited. 

And  shortly  after  the  clock  had  struck  two,  when 
the  first  Inception  of  the  dawn  had  already  changed 
the  black  opacity  of  the  corridor  window  to  a  pale 
gray,  the  door  of  her  father's  bedroom  slowly 
opened,  and  she  saw  Renee,  a  dishevelled  and 
obscene  figure,  pass  swiftly  across  the  corridor  and 
disappear. 

Charles  Fearns  had  lived  one  hour  too  long. 
For  twenty-five  years.  In  obedience  to  the  ever- 
growing tyranny  of  concupiscence,  he  had  carried 
on  a  series  of  Intrigues  of  all  kinds.  Year  by  year 
his  power  over  women  and  his  skill  In  chicane  had 
Increased.  Year  by  year  his  sense  of  honour  and  of 
shame  had  dwindled,  until  he  was  In  a  way  to  be- 
come nothing  but  the  embodiment  of  one  over- 
mastering and  lawless  Instinct.  And  as  the  drunkard 
cannot  measure  the  depths  to  which  he  has  sunk, 
so  Charles  Fearns  could  not  measure  his  degra- 
dation. He  was  capable  of  committing  enormities 
without  realizing  that  they  were  enormities.  He 
had  successfully  survived  several  minor  disasters. 
He  had  come  to  believe  utterly  in  his  luck  and  his 
adroitness.  But  now  the  supreme  disaster  had 
happened.     The    bomb    had    burst.     A    moment's 


I40  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

indiscretion,  a  moment's  folly  at  the  top  of  a  stair- 
case, had  nullified  the  amazing  and  elaborate  in- 
genuity in  deceit  of  a  quarter  of  a  century.  Charles 
Fearns  the  tight-rope  dancer  had  fallen,  and  crushed 
the  tender  and  delicate  creature  whom  alone  he 
purely  loved. 


CHAPTER   IV 


MOTHER    AND    DAUGHTER 


THE  actual  disintegration  of  the  fabric  of 
family  existence  was  begun  by  Annunciata 
herself,  unconsciously,  the  next  morning. 
Acting  under  the  sway  of  an  urgent  instinct  whose 
propriety  seemed  to  her  to  be  above  argument,  she 
arose  very  early,  and,  with  as  many  precautions  as 
she  had  used  in  the  night,  crept  out  of  her  room, 
across  the  corridor,  and  into  the  nursery.  The  door 
between  the  nursery  and  Mademoiselle's  bedroom 
was  now  shut.  The  little  boys  slept,  their  postures 
unchanged.  She  did  not  hesitate  a  moment.  Putting 
her  arms  under  Sep  first,  because  he  was  the  younger 
and  because  of  the  tear-stains  on  his  flushed  soft 
cheek,  she  picked  him  gently  up  and  carried  him,  all 
warm  and  limp,  to  her  own  chamber.  Then  it  was 
Frank's  turn;  and  a  third  time  she  came  for  their  gar- 
ments, and  for  the  sacred  indispensable  toys  which 
diverted  their  owners  up  to  breakfast.  She  closed 
her  door,  relieved,  and  breathless  from  nervous 
excitement.  The  sleeping  boys  were  side  by  side  in 
her  great  bed,  unexpectant  of  the  immense  surprise 

141 


142  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

that  awaited   them.     Only  once   had   the   floor  of 
the   corridor  creaked. 

She  dressed  noiselessly,  with  frequent  glances  at 
the  bed,  and  as  she  was  fixing  the  final  comb  in  her 
tight-bound  hair,  Sep  awoke.  She  sprang  to  him, 
and  stifled  with  a  kiss  his  amazement  at  seeing  her. 

"Sh!"  she  whispered,  smiling  sadly  into  his  lim- 
pid eyes,  which  were  close  to  hers.  "You're  in  my 
bed.  I've  brought  you,  and  Frankie  too.  It's  a 
secret.     Here's  your  gray  horse." 

He  had  exactly  his  father's  eyes,  naughty-twink- 
ling, and  irresistible;  and  he  had  his  father's  heavy 
underlip.  The  possibilities,  nay,  the  certainties 
that  peeped  forth  out  of  the  innocence  of  that  baby 
afflicted  Annunciata.  She  saw  the  whole  generation 
of  babies,  boys  and  girls,  of  Sep's  age,  and  she 
thought  of  what  they  must  come  to,  and  a  gust  of 
angry  protest  against  the  very  march  of  nature 
swept  through  her. 

Sep  put  his  brown  fists  into  his  eyes,  sleepily  in- 
spected the  new  environment,  and  then  yawned. 

"I  don't  want  my  gray  horse,"  he  said.  "It's 
my  elephant  morning." 

This  aroused  Frank.  As  Annunciata  leaned  her 
long  body  across  them  both,  kissing  them,  cuddling 
them,  mumbling  tender  words  with  her  lips  on  theirs 
calming  with  her  hand  their  tumultuous  legs  and 
arms,  she  was  like  a  cook  who  has  to  keep  watch  on 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER  143 

two  saucepans  at  once  lest  either  should  boil  over. 
If  one  child  cried,  the  other  would  cry,  and  the 
whole  household  would  instantly  be  acquainted 
with   the  facts. 

Their  astonishment  was  short-lived.  They  ac- 
cepted Annunciata's  bed  and  Annunciata's  room 
with  the  philosophic  fatalism  of  their  years. 

**Does  Mamzelle  know.'"'  Frank  cautiously 
asked,  pulling  at  the  fine  lace  of  a  pillow. 

*'Don't!"  Annunciata  entreated.  "No.  She 
doesn't.  You  mustn't  talk  so  loud.  Haven't  I  told 
you  it's  a  secret.'*  I'm  going  to  take  you  for  a 
walk." 

"Where  to.'"'  demanded   Frank. 

"Where   would    you    like.'"' 

"Pond,"   said   Sep  with  firmness. 

"He  means  the  pond  in  the  Park,"  Frank  ex- 
plained. 

"Swan,"  said  Sep.  "And  two  teeny  tiny  baby 
swans." 

"Very  well,"  Annunciata  agreed.  "We'll  go  to 
the  Park.  But  you  must  get  up  very  quietly,  both 
of  you,  do  you  hear?     Who  will  get  up  first.'"' 

"It's  my  turn,"  Frank  answered  gloomily.  He 
would  have  preferred  to  get  up  last,  so  that  he  might 
play  with  the  combined  toys  for  a  few  moments; 
but  he  had  a  passion  for  truth  which  victimized 
him  as  often  as  it  defended  his  rights. 


144  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

He  slipped  out  of  bed,  and  Annunclata  found  his 
shirt. 

*'My  socks,"  he  corrected  her,  pained.  Annun- 
ciata's  ignorance  of  the  elementary  fact  that  he  put 
on  his  socks  before  removing  his  night-attire  as- 
tounded him.  He  could  not  get  over  it.  So  the 
dressing  proceeded,  with  many  false  starts  and  set- 
backs, Annunclata's  spine  being  aways  bent,  and 
her  face  red,  and  her  thin  fingers  accommodating 
themselves  with  a  strange  clumsiness  to  unaccus- 
tomed tasks.  And  long  ere  Sep  was  clad  and  up- 
right, it  was  as  if  the  angel  of  confusion  had  passed 
through  the  scrupulously  kept  room.  A  battle 
might  have  raged  in  the  space  between  the  bed  and 
the  washstand.  She  sighed  at  the  sight  of  Frank 
pretending  that  her  embroidered  night-dress  case, 
which  had  travelled  under  the  bed,  was  a  white 
bear.  And  she  did  no  more  than  sigh  when  Sep, 
his  feet  entangled  in  a  wet  towel,  subsided  on  his 
stomach  and  broke  a  tortoise-shell  comb.  But  at 
length  they  were  definitely  dressed. 

"Now  you  can  sit  on  the  sill  and  look  out  of  the 
window,"  she  said,  "while  I  write  a  note.  Then 
we'll  go." 

She  went  to  the  little  writing  desk,  and  wrote  on 
a  letter  card: 

"Please  leave  the  house  as  quickly  as  possible.  I 
am  looking  after  the  children.    Annunciata  Fearns." 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER  145 

The  next  minute  she  had  put  on  her  hat  and 
opened  her  door.  The  letter  was  between  her 
teeth,  Frank  under  her  right  arm,  and  Sep  under  her 
left.  Frank  clutched  a  pair  of  her  gloves.  She 
reached  the  ground  floor  with  her  burdens  safely, 
despite  an  accident  with  the  two  cats,  who  were 
reposing  on  the  top  step  but  one  of  the  stairs.  She 
relinquished  the  children,  who  now,  having  taken 
a  fancy  to  be  conspirators,  were  behaving  precisely 
according  to  her  wishes.  Sunshine  v/as  slanting 
into  the  hall  through  the  open  door  of  the  drawing 
room,  the  beam  crowded  with  large  motes  from  a 
disturbed  mat.  The  clock  ticked  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  The  morning  newspaper  had  already 
been  pushed  under  the  side  door.  She  led  her 
babes  through  the  kitchen,  where  the  cook,  new  and 
unsympathetic,  was  blackleading  the  range,  to  the 
larder,  where  she  fed  them  on  bread  and  milk. 

"Please  take  this  note  up  to  Mademoiselle's  room 
and  give  it  to  her,"  she  said  to  the  cook. 

"What,  now.?  As  I  am.  Miss?"  the  cook 
questioned. 

"Please." 

"Well,"  said  the  cook's  back,  leaving  the  kitchen, 
"I've  been  in  some  queer  houses " 

Outside,  In  Trafalgar  Road,  Annunciata  breathed 
largely  and  freely.  She  let  the  children  run  loose 
while  she  put  on  her  gloves,  and  then  she  took  their 


146  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

hands.  At  Grange  House,  a  little  way  down  on  the 
right,  there  was  a  tap  on  a  pane.  Annunciata 
looked  up,  startled  and  blushing.  Her  friend 
Helen  Pierpoint  was  at  her  bedroom  window,  half 
hidden  by  a  curtain.  Helen's  face  expressed  much 
wonder  and  curiosity,  but  Annunciata  only  smiled, 
shamefaced,  and  shook  her  head  and  went  on.  The 
Hanbridge  car,  crammed  with  workmen  and  work- 
women, rushed  with  a  roar  and  a  swish  up  the  slope. 
The  pavements  were  dotted  with  hurrying,  noisy- 
footed,  preoccupied  people,  who  seemed  to  ignore 
the  singular  and  pretty  sight  of  the  white  girl  leading 
two  blue  boys  whose  little  legs  took  two  steps  to 
their  sister's  one.  Annunciata  prayed  that  she 
might  meet  nobody  she  knew.  She  could  not 
imagine  herself  once  again  speaking  naturally  to 
a    friend. 

Up  in  the  town  the  new  terra  cotta  post-office  had 
not  opened  its  absurd  portal.  The  town-hall  clock 
showed  half-past  seven.     She  stopped. 

"Pond,"   said   Sep. 

"Anny,"  Frank  enquired,  after  a  calm  inspection 
of  her,     "Why  are  your  eyes  black. ^" 

She  was  examining  the  notice  in  the  window  of 
the    post-office. 

"And  you  never  made  us  say  our  prayers  either," 
he   added. 

"Pond,"   Sep  repeated  insistently. 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER  147 

She  took  them,  protesting,  for  a  walk  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Turnhill,  along  a  road  from  which  the  town 
park  was  clearly  visible,  like  a  promised  land,  on  the 
right.  And  at  eight  o'clock,  she  led  them  back  to 
the  post-office,  which  was  just  unbarred,  and  they 
pushed  valiantly- at  the  swing  door  for  her  and  fell 
over  a  broom  that  a  woman  was  wielding  in  the 
vestibule.  Annunciata  had  never  in  her  life  sent  a 
telegram  from  a  post-office.  But  a  kind  fate 
guided  her  to  the  dark  corner  provided  for  the 
public  writing  of  telegrams,  and  with  a  stumpy 
pencil,  heavily  fettered,  she  composed  a  tele- 
gram to  her  mother:  *'Come  home  at  once, 
Annunciata." 

"What's  this  name  please.^"  demanded  a  girl  be- 
hind the  broad,  ink-stained  counter. 

And  Annunciata  had  to  spell  her  name  letter  by 
letter. 

"Sixpence,  please." 

A  telegraph  instrument  was  clicking  the  whole 
time  behind  a  screen,  and  the  boys,  overcome  by 
the  height  of  the  counter  and  the  unprecedented 
mysterious  clicking,  whispered  solemnly  to  each 
other.  Annunciata  affixed  the  stamps  to  the  form 
and  summoned  the  boys,  who  pattered  in  her  wake. 
She  felt  that  she  had  done  all  that  could  be  done. 
And  suddenly  she  was  very  frightened,  almost 
dumfounded,  by  what  she  had  dared  to  do.     Con- 


148  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

sequences  began  to  shape  themselves  vaguely  and 
horribly  before  her. 


At  half  past  ten  she  returned  home  with  her 
brothers.  The  boys  were  tired,  tired  of  swans,  of 
little  brown  swans,  of  flowers,  of  gravel  pies,  and 
even  of  chocolate  from  the  slot  machines  in  the 
park  shelters.  And  Annunciata  was  exhausted 
utterly.  She  had  tasted  nothing  but  bits  of  choco- 
late, which  had  nauseated  her  in  the  hot  morning 
sun.  The  scullery  maid  was  cleaning  the  front 
steps.  It  was  quite  wrong  that  the  scullery  maid 
should  have  been  cleaning  the  front  steps  at  such  an 
hour,  but  Annunciata  was  glad  to  see  her  in  the 
porch,  because  Martha  had  been  an  inmate  of  the 
house  much  longer  than  the  other  servants,  and  had 
something  of  the  faithful  bondslave  in  her  un- 
gainly fat  body. 

"Eh,  Miss,"  she  observed.  "You're  that  pale!" 
And  she  kept  the  boys  off  her  clean  steps  with  smil- 
ing protests  and  gestures  of  her  red  arms. 

"Has  father  gone.'"'  Annunciata  asked. 

"Yes,  Miss.  He  come  downstairs,  and  drank  his 
coffee  and  hasted  off  quicker  nor  ever  like." 

Mr.  Fearns  was  of  those  incurable  persons  who 
prefer  bed  to  breakfast.  To  catch  him  of  a  morning 
between  his  bedroom  door  and  the  front  door  needed 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER  149 

the  eye  of  a  lynx  and  the  pounce  of  a  cat;  one  mo- 
ment he  was,  and  the  next  he  was  not. 

"Where  is  Mademoiselle?"  Annunciata's  heart 
beat. 

"She  ain't  stirred,  Miss,"  replied  Martha.  And 
Annunciata  seemed  to  detect  a  peculiar  intonation 
in   the  girl's  voice. 

"Well,  that's  a  nice  thing!"  Frankie  remarked. 
"Who's  going  to  look  after  us.?  Nobody  can  teach 
us  our  lessons  but  Mamzelle." 

Annunciata  recovered  herself.  "You  won't  have 
any  lessons  this  morning.  Martha  shall  play  with 
you  in  the  nursery.  Take  them,  will  you,  Martha. 
Put  on  a  white  apron.  Now  you  must  be  good,  or 
else  I  sha'n't  take  you  out  any  more." 

"Rum!"  said  Frank.     "Come  on,  Sep." 

Sep  was  smiling  to  himself.  He  was  not  an  Im- 
passioned talker.  They  carefully  left  four  foot- 
marks on  the  white  steps. 

"And  ask  cook  to  make  me  some  tea," Annunciata 
called  out,  "and  to  bring  it  to  me  in  the  drawing- 
room." 

She  tried  to  convince  herself  that  the  domestic 
organism  showed  no  signs  of  the  night's  horror. 
But  the  very  aspect  of  the  senseless  chairs  straddling 
on  the  drawing-room  carpet  seemed  to  cry  aloud  that 
all  was  changed;  and  that  they  were  no  longer  the 
same  chairs.     The  cook  brought  In  the  tea  with  an 


ISO  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

expression  to  indicate  that  she  was  not  a  woman  to 
be  easily  deceived  and  that  she  had  witnessed  strange 
matters  aforetime  and  could  hear  a  thunderstorm  a 
hundred  miles  off.  And  Annunicata's  thoughts 
ran:  "I  have  done  this.  I  have  done  all  this,  with- 
out consulting  anybody."  And  then  she  would  ask: 
"All  what.?"     So  she  drank  her  tea. 

At  twelve  o'clock,  as  Mademoiselle  had  not 
appeared,  she  formed  the  extraordinary  resolution 
to  visit  the  governess  in  her  bedroom  and  command 
her  to  depart.  The  idea  at  the  back  of  her  mind  was 
that  Renee  must  on  no  account  meet  her  mother. 
She  ran  with  mad  quivering  courage  upstairs,  and 
burst  into  Renee's  room.  And  it  was  empty  and 
strange.  Renee's  two  trunks  were  strapped  and 
labelled  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Renee,  then,  had 
gone,  leaving  her  trunks  to  follow.  Annunciata  took 
breath. 

After  all,  the  night  had  not  been  an  awful  dream. 
Renee,  fleeing  secretly  at  the  instance  of  that  brief 
note,  penned  while  the  boys  played  on  the  window 
sill,  had  admitted  her  guilt.  Annunciata  went  into 
the  garden  and  questioned  the  gardener.  Yes,  he 
had  seen  Mademoiselle  leave  the  house  at  a  quarter 
past  ten.  She  was  carrying  a  small  bag,  and  ap- 
peared to  be  in  a  hurry. 

To  avoid  meeting  her  father  at  lunch,  Annunciata 
determined    to    be    unwell.     But,  just    as    she    re- 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER  151 

entered  the  house,  the  telephone  rang  its  imperious 
bell.  By  force  of  habit  she  answered  the  call.  It 
was  her  father's  voice  she  heard,  cold,  grave,  haughty. 

"Who's  there?"  he  demanded. 

"Me,"  her  lips  trembled. 

"What.?     Annunciata?" 

"Yes,  father."  Somehow  she  felt  ashamed  and 
guilty,  as  though  she,  and  not  her  father,  had  sinned. 

"I  have  to  go  to  Liverpool,  on  business.  I  sha'n't 
be  in  for  lunch.  I  don't  know  if  I  shall  be  back 
to-night." 

And  he  rang  off,  curtly,  without  another  word. 

She  was  stunned  by  the  rush  of  events.  In  a 
vision  she  seemed  to  see  Renee  creeping  into  her 
her  father's  room,  and  to  hear  her  say:  "Look  at 
this  note  that  your  fine  daughter  has  sent  me!" 
And  then  the  feverish  discussion  of  what  the  note 
implied  and  how  they  should  act. 

Bradshaw  always  lay  on  the  ledge  under  the  tele- 
phone next  to  the  list  of  telephone  subscribers.  She 
tried  to  discover  the  times  of  the  trains  from  Bir- 
mingham, but  with  no  success.  She  could  not 
decipher  the  figures  on  the  page,  much  less  hit  on 
the  right  pages.  With  an  admirable  sense  of  her 
needs  at  that  moment  she  issued  an  ordinance 
that  Frank  and  Sep  should  lunch  with  her  in  the 
dining-room. 

It  was  toward  the  end  of  this  perilous  meal  that 


152  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

the  door  of  the  dining-room  opened  swiftly,  and  her 
mother  stood  there,  a  little  dishevelled  and  heated 
from  the  journey. 

"My  dear!"  asked  her  mother  abruptly,  but  in  a 
low,  restrained  tone,  "what  ever  is  the  matter?" 

Annunciata  could  not  speak,  though  she  tried  to 
form  some  words.  And  the  boys  stopped  eating 
and  gazed  at  her  with  open  mouths,  not  even  greet- 
ing their  mother.  Her  mother's  presence  choked 
her.  The  terribleness  of  what  she  had  done,  on  her 
own  initiative,  its  irremediability,  its  audacity, 
struck  her  now  with  overwhelming  force.  Had  she 
remained  quiescent,  the  household  would  have  been 
revolving  as  usual.  But  her  action  had  devastated 
it  like  an  internal  fire,  and  what  remained  was  the 
shell,  to  deceive  onlookers,  and  them  only  for  a 
little    space. 

"Dearest!"  exclaimed  her  mother  approaching 
her  with  uplifted.  Importunate  hands. 

No!  She  could  not  speak.  She  could  not  begin. 
She  could  not  control  her  muscles.  And  yet  all  the 
morning  she  had  fancied  that  she  was  so  calm,  per- 
fectly mistress  of  herself.  She  turned  away  her 
dizzy  head  with  a  supreme  gesture  of  impotence, 
and  the  last  thing  she  saw  was  a  patch  of  egg-yolk 
on  Sep's  bib. 

When  she  recovered  her  senses,  she  was  lying  on 
her  back  on  the  couch  in  the  drawing-room,  her  face 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER  153 

toward  the  door,  and  a  faint  smell  of  ammonia  in 
her  nostrils.  The  three  servants  were  grouped  at 
the  door,  with  alarmed,  foolish  faces.  Her  mother 
stood  by  her  side,  fanning  her  with  a  Japanese  fan 
taken  from  the  mantelpiece.  There  came  from  the 
hall  a  sudden  shrill  sound  of  Sep  crying. 

"Martha,"  said  her  mother,  "take  them  into  the 
garden  and  keep  them  good.  That  will  do,  thank 
you,  she  is  better  now." 

Her  mother  waved  away  the  servants,  shut  the 
door  on  them  and  on  Sep's  weeping,  and  returned  to 
the  couch. 

Annunciata  stared  mournfully,  and  seized  her 
hand  in  a  limp  clasp. 

"This  is  a  nice  home-coming!"  murmured  her 
mother  quietly,  smiling.  "What  is  it,  dear.?  It 
seems  that  Mademoiselle  has  gone." 

"Oh,  mother,"  said  Annunciata,  in  a  languid, 
imploring,  invalid's  voice.  "I  was  obliged  to  tele- 
graph for  you."  She  spoke  now  without  difficulty, 
as  if  in  a  dream. 

"But  why?" 

"Because  of  Mademoiselle—  and  father."  The 
last  syllables  melted  into  soft  tears. 

Her  mother  dropped  her  hand,  and  put  the  fan  on 
the   mantelpiece. 

"Your  father.''"  Mrs.  Fearns  questioned  sharply, 
moving  from   the   sofa. 


154  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

Annunciata  had  to  say  it,  and  she  said  it.  She 
had  to  look  her  mother  in  the  face,  and  she  looked  her 
in  the  face.  And  the  face  was  drawn,  pinched, 
,  pallid,  like  the  face  of  a  dead  mother. 

"They  were  together,  last  night,"  she  said,  ceas- 
ing to  cry. 

"Together,  Annunciata.'"'  her  mother  repeated, 
in  a  hissing  voice.  "Annunciata,  what  do  you 
mean.'"'  The  woman  crossed  the  hearth-rug  in 
three  rapid  steps. 

"Mother " 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  my  poor  child!"  cried 
Mrs.  Fearns.  "I  know!  I  know!"  she  reiterated  in 
slow,  expiring  tones,  and  sank  upon  a  chair,  the 
muscles  of  her  spine  rigid.  "So  that  is  why  you 
telegraphed!    God  forgive  him!    God  forgive  him!" 

The  make-believe  was  at  an  end.  Unlike  the 
majority  of  girls,  Annunciata  had  not  had  to  wait 
until  she  was  married  and  expecting  a  baby,  for  her 
mother's  explicit  recognition  of  the  fact  that  she  had 
ceased  to  be  a  child  and  had  looked  on  existence  and 
understood.  Never  till  then  had  a  word  passed 
between  them  to  compromise,  to  breathe  a  stain 
upon,  the  assumed  purity  of  Annunciata's  mind. 
Never  had  the  sacred  doors  of  convention  been 
boldly  unbarred  that  Annunciata  might  glance,  were 
it  for  an  instant,  on  the  central  disquieting  mystery 
and  secret  cause  of  life's  continuance.     But  now 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER  155 

fate  had  broken  down  the  barriers,  and  mother  and 
daughter  gazed  eye  to  eye  on  the  most  shocking 
sight  that  even  the  wife  of  Charles  Fearns  had  ever 
seen,  and  neither  pretended  that  Annunciata  was 
blind  or  incapable  of  comprehension.  Annunciata 
was  extremely  surprised  to  find  how  simple  and 
natural  in  its  profound  grief  was  the  avowal.  And 
she  was  astonished  too  that,  without  assistance, 
without  reflection,  by  mere  instinct,  she  had  under- 
stood so  much  and  so  immediately.  In  a  single  day 
the  theoretical  initiation  had  been  begun  and  com- 
pleted, and  accepted  by  the  last  person  in  the  world 
likely  to  accept  it. 

"Tell  me,"  said  her  mother.  "Not  here.?  Not  in 
this  house,'"' 

Annunciata  nodded,  and  with  a  weak  hand 
pointed  to  the  ceiling.  The  bedrooms  of  her  father 
and  mother  were  over  the  drawing-room. 

"Surely  not!"  Mrs.  Fearns  whispered  in  accents 
made  solemn  by  the  sense  of  outrage.  She  put 
her  chin  in  her  plump  hand,  and  rested  her  elbow 
on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  staring  at  the  carpet. 
"Surely  not!" 

Annunciata  did  not  insist.  She  pushed  back  her 
hair  with  a  fatigued,  worried  movement,  and  waited. 
She  felt  herself  to  be  in  the  midst  of  a  unique  crisis, 
a  crisis  than  which  she  could  conceive  nothing  more 
thrilling  and  dreadful.     And  mingled  with  her  great 


156  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

distress  was  a  strange,  timorous  pride — that  she 
stood  for  once  on  an  equality  with  her  mother.  An- 
nunciata  knew  herself  to  be  inferior  to  her  mother 
both  in  intellect  and  in  force  of  character;  she  knew 
that  this  would  always  be  so,  that  no  development 
on  her  part  could  ever  change  their  relative  positions. 
She  had  loved  and  admired  her  father,  but  an  im- 
mense respect  was  the  basis  of  her  sentiments 
toward  her  mother,  whom  in  her  secret  soul  she  had 
from  her  earliest  years  recognized,  with  the  sure, 
impartial  judgment  of  infancy,  as  the  strongest 
individuality  in  the  house. 

"How  came  you  to  know  anything  of  this,  Annun- 
ciata?"  asked  Mrs.  Fearns  after  a  silence. 

The  girl  turned  to  lie  on  her  left  side,  and  looked 
her  mother  candidly  in  the  face,  and  Mrs.  Fearns 
raised  her  eyes  and  met  the  glance. 

"Am  I  to  tell  you  all  about  it,  mamma.?"  Here 
spoke  the  mother's  equal,  the  young  woman  of  the 
world. 

Their  mutual  glance  was  prolonged. 

"Yes." 

And  Annunciata,  in  a  tired,  drawling  voice,  re- 
lated the  whole  episode  from  the  moment  of  the  pat 
on  Renee's  cheek.  She  spoke  naturally,  without 
self-consciousness,  without  even  a  blush.  She  was 
amazed  at  her  own  serenity,  amazed  that  she  could 
relate  the  awful  thing  in  a  manner  so  cold-blooded. 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER  157 

It  may  appear  incredible,  but  it  is  nevertheless  a 
fact,  that,  while  she  told  it,  her  father's  monstrous 
obliquity  seemed  to  her  less  a  crime  than  a  vagary. 
She  did  not  in  truth  know  what  she  was  talking  about. 

"You  sent  that  note  up  by  the  cook,'"' 

"Yes,  mamma.  Then  I  took  the  children  out 
instantly." 

"And  did  your  father  see  her  before  he  went  to 
the  office?" 

"I  don't  know." 

Mrs.  Fearns  rose  from  her  chair,  and  put  up  her 
hands  to  take  the  pins  from  her  hat. 

"Did  your  father  say  anything  else  when  he  tele- 
phoned.^" she  demanded,  a  hat-pin  between  her 
teeth. 

"Oh  no,  mother  —  he  spoke  very  crossly." 

The  notion  gradually  formed  in  Annunciata's 
mind  that  her  mother  had  exhibited  rather  less  than 
the  utmost  degree  of  surprise  at  the  disastrous  news. 
The  girl  was  not  deceived  by  her  mother's  calm. 
She  had  a  little  expected  her  to  remain  calm.  But 
there  was  something  subtle  and  unseizable  In  her 
mother's  manner  that  Implied,  if  not  a  faint  pre- 
monition, at  any  rate  a  previous  foreboding  fear, 
born  of  past  experience.  And  Annunciata  saw  her 
father's  charming  way  with  women  in  a  new  and 
sinister  light.  Had  he  then  always  been  one  of 
those  wicked  rakes   that     .     .     .      ?     And  had  her 


158  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

mother  always  known  and  suffered?  And  had  her 
parents  lived  always  a  double  existence  under  her 
unsuspecting  eyes? 

She  was  filled  with  a  fierce  and  dangerous  curiosity, 
which  almost  compelled  her  to  say  to  her  mother: 
"Mother,  you  do  not  seem  very  surprised." 

But  she  dared  not.  Happily  her  awe  of  her 
mother  was  stronger  than  the  impulse. 

There  was  a  screeching  yell  from  the  garden,  then 
a  silence,  then  a  series  of  yells  crescendo  and  dimin- 
uendo: which  phenomena  could  only  mean  that 
Sep  had  fallen  flat  on  some  stony  substance  and 
really  hurt    himself. 

"  If  you're  quite  recovered,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Fearns 
in  a  cold  and  even  tone,  "do  go  and  look  after  those 
boys,  and  send  Martha  in.  By  the  way,  your  aunt 
is   better." 

It  was  a  singular  close  to  the  interview. 

During  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Fearns  disappeared 
from  view.  Annunciata  conscientiously  occupied 
herself  with  the  boys.  She  played  with  them,  she 
gave  them  a  lesson  and  their  supper,  and  she  put 
them  to  bed,  early.  And  then  the  desire  to  see  her 
mother  again  overcame  her.  She  went  quietly  into 
her  father's  bedroom,  whose  perfect  orderliness 
showed  no  trace  of  the  night's  history,  and  through 
the  open  door  leading  to  the  inner  room  she  saw  a 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER  159 

form  seated  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  there.  The  pale 
green  blind  was  drawn  and  the  chamber  in  the 
shadow.  She  advanced  on  tiptoe,  with  beating 
heart. 

"Mother!"  she  cried  aloud,  and  flung  her  arms 
round  that  soft  neck,  and  pressed  her  girlish  bosom 
against  the  rich  breasts  that  once  had  fed  her. 
Her  mother,  with  dry  eyes,  was  sobbing  painfully. 
Annunciata  kissed  her  eyes  with  a  wild  spiritual 
abandonment,  and  they  wept  together  in  a  close 
and  ecstatic  embrace. 

"Mother!"  the  girl  whispered  through  her  tears, 
"You've  been  here  all  by  yourself  for  hours  and 
hours!" 

And  Mrs  Fearns  nodded,  drawing  breath  hyster- 
ically through  her  nostrils. 

"Mother  dearest!  I  did  right,  didn't  I.?  I 
couldn't  possibly  let  her  touch  Frank  and  Sep  again, 
could  I?" 

"  You  did  quite  right,  my  darling." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  outer  door. 

"  Go  and  see,"  said  Mrs.  Fearns. 

A  telegram  had  come  from  the  master  of  the 
house  to  the  effect  that  he  could  not  return  that  night. 
Annunciata,  having  read  it  first,  off"ered  it  to  her 
mother  in  silence. 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  "you  need  some  one  to  talk 
to,  to  consult." 


i6o  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

"  Who  is  there  I  can  talk  to?  "  asked  Mrs.  Fearns, 
with  apparently  a  touch  of  cynicism. 

"There  is  Mr.  Ridware." 

"Oh,  no!  I  can't  bother  Mr.  Ridware  with  my 
troubles." 

"  You  ought  to  have  some  one,  mamma,"  Annun- 
ciata  persisted. 


CHAPTER    V 

AFTERNOON   AND   NIGHT 

THE  same  afternoon,  Lawrence  Ridware 
returned  from  midday  dinner  to  the  office 
on  Gater's  high-geared  bicycle.  He  had 
forgotten  it  in  the  morning.  At  the  corner  of  Hol- 
born  and  Chancery  Lane  he  passed  Paul  Pennington, 
carrying  his  indispensable  little  shiny  black  bag; 
and  there  was  a  look  of  prim  and  temperate  satis- 
factionon  Pennington's  face  which  caused  Lawrence's 
heart  to  sink.  It  was  the  energy  of  Pennington,  his 
passion  for  doing  things  instantly  which  had  to  be 
done,  that  disturbed  Lawrence.  An  action  for 
divorce  having  been  decided,  Pennington  took  it  in 
hand  at  once.  That  very  morning  Pennington  had 
told  him  that  there  was  no  reason  why  the  petition 
should  not  be  heard  early  in  the  Michaelmas  Sittings. 
Pennington  had  asked  him  for  the  address  of  the 
landlady  at  Manifold,  and  also  for  a  photograph  of 
his  wife.  Lawrence  had  replied  with  a  certain 
unreasonable  relish  that  Pennington  would  have  to 
wait  for  a  photograph  till  the  afternoon.     But  Pcn- 

i6i 


1 62  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

nington  reminded  him  that  a  photograph  of  some 
lady  had  been  lying  about  Lawrence's  room  for 
years  —  it  had  survived  even  the  brief  reign  of  the 
late  Thomas  —  and  was  now  probably  in  one  of  the 
drawers  of  his  desk.  Was  not  that  the  portrait  of 
Mrs.  Ridware?  It  was.  Pennington  himself  found 
it  in  a  lower  drawer,  together  with  a  forgotton 
volume  of  Retif  de  la  Bretonne  and  a  number  of  the 
Bibliophile.  Pennington  dusted  it,  and  put  it  in  an 
envelope  and  pocketed  it.  "I  can  just  catch  the 
10.33  for  Manifold,"  Pennington  had  said,  hasten- 
ing away.  Why  could  not  Pennington  have  waited 
a  few  days.'*  This  despatch  annoyed  Lawrence; 
but  he  could  not  protest;  he  could  only  thank  Penn- 
ington for  being  so  assiduous. 

And  now  Pennington  was  returned  from  his 
mission. 

Lawrence  carried  the  bicycle  upstairs  with  a  rush, 
so  that  he  might  be  ready  to  receive  Pennington 
calmly  in  his  own  room.  He  felt  himself  to  be  very 
nervous.  He  swore  at  himself  for  being  thus  nervous 
on  no  pretext  whatever.  But  his  profanity  worked  no 
cure.  Fortunately,  only  Gater  was  in  the  ofhce, 
and  Gater  was  too  interested  in  the  reappearance 
of  his  bicycle  to  notice  the  rider.  With  a  word  of 
thanks  for  the  loan  Lawrence  went  straight  to  his 
room  and  sat  down.  Through  the  half-open  door 
he  saw  Pennington  come  into  the  articled-clerks' 


AFTERNOON  AND  NIGHT  163 

office,  put  down  his  bag,  change  his  coat,  and  sheathe 
his  cuffs  in  note  paper.  Pennington  then  made  an 
entry  in  the  petty  cash  book  (which  he  kept),  un- 
locked a  drawer,  put  some  money  into  it,  and  locked 
it.  No  doubt  he  was  dealing  with  the  expenses  of 
the  journey  to  Manifold.  Pennington's  precise 
manner  of  manipulating  a  bunch  of  keys  was  always 
irritating  to  Lawrence.  To  see  the  young  man 
turn  a  key  with  a  snap,  withdraw  the  bunch,  and 
drop  it  into  his  pocket  would  sometimes  make 
Lawrence  grind  his  teeth.  It  reminded  him,  in 
some  preposterous  way,  of  the  Scribes  and  Sadducees. 

Pennington  took  a  paper  out  of  his  bag  and  en- 
tered Lawrence's  room,  shutting  the  door. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I've  got  everything."  He  did 
not  smile.  He  had  the  fitting  gravity  of  an  under- 
taker. 

"You  have.?"     Lawrence  exclaimed,  flushing. 

"Yes.     She  wouldn't  talk  at  first." 

"Who  wouldn't?" 

"Mrs.  Malkin,  the  landlady.  Your  wife — Mrs. 
Ridware — had  evidently  made  a  most  favourable 
impression  on   her." 

"Indeed!"  said  Lawrence.  There  it  was  again — 
another  instance  of  Phyllis's  skill  in  imposing  on 
people. 

"But  I  soon  made  her  see  reason.  I  told  her  that 
anyway  she  would  be  subpoenaed  and  have  to  go  to 


i64  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

London.  And  I  also  pointed  out  to  her  that  if  it 
transpired  at  the  trial  that  she  was  an  unwilling 
witness,  that  very  fact  would  give  her  house  a  bad 
reputation,  because  everyone  would  say  that  she  had 
connived.  I  told  her  that  the  only  way  for  her  to 
save  the  reputation  of  her  house,  was  to  do  every- 
thing she  could  to  help  us  to  get  at  the  truth." 

Pennington  paused  for  admiration  of  this  di- 
plomacy. 

"Very  good,"  said  Lawrence,  looking  up  at  him 
as  he  stood  correct  and  virtuous  behind  the  desk. 

"She's  a  regular  landlady.  That  knocked  her. 
I  got  everything  out  of  her,  and  what's  more,  I  made 
her  sign  a  note  of  her  evidence." 

"Did  you?     What  does  she  say?" 

"I'll  read  it  to  you." 

Lawrence  wanted  to  say:  "No,  let  me  read  it 
myself."     But  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  do  so. 

And  Pennington  read: 

"My  name  is  Mary  Malkln.  I  keep  a  boarding 
house  at  No.  3  Ham  Terrace,  Manifold.  Mr. 
Emery  Greatbatch  has  frequently  stayed  in  my 
house  at  holiday  times  for  several  years  past.  He 
has  a  large  bed-sitting-room.  On  the  Thursday 
before  last  Good  Friday  he  came  in  the  morning,  by 
arrangement.  He  then  told  me  that  a  lady  would 
come  to  take  tea  with  him  on  Good  Friday,  and  I 
was  to  get  something  nice  for  tea.     The  lady  came. 


AFTERNOON  AND  NIGHT  165 

She  was  veiled.  But  I  took  the  tea  up  myself  and 
saw  her.  The  photograph  shown  to  me  this  morn- 
ing is  her  portrait.  She  left  about  nine  o'clock. 
They  neither  of  them  left  the  room  during  that 
time.  Mr.  Greatbatch  did  not  accompany  her 
when    she   went." 

Pennington  coughed,  glancing  up  from  the  paper. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  said,  "I  asked  her  if 
there  were  any  signs  of  disorder  in  the  room  when 
she  came  up  to  clear  the  tea  things  away  afterward. 
But  she  said  it  was  too  dark  to  see.  She  stuck  to 
that  for  some  time,  and  then  she  admitted  that  the 
bed  might  have  been  unmade  and  remade.  I  saw 
the  room.  It  contains  a  large  bed  and  a  sofa  and 
many  other  things.  However,  that  doesn't  matter. 
The  inference  is  sufficiently  strong,  and  besides 
there's  a  lot  more  evidence.  She  goes  on:  'The 
lady  came  again  for  tea  on  Easter  Sunday.  Mr. 
Greatbatch  didn't  ring  afterward,  and  the  servant 
didn't  go  up  to  clear  the  things  away.  I  asked  the 
servant  at  ten  o'clock  if  the  lady  had  gone  and  she 
said  she  didn't  know.  I  went  upstairs  quietly  and 
listened  outside  the  door,  and  heard  talking,  but 
there  was  no  light  in  the  room.  It  was  a  man  and  a 
woman  talking,  very  low.  I  then  went  to  bed.  I 
had  a  made-up  bed  in  the  front  parlour,  it  being 
holiday  time.  I  stayed  awake  till  two  o'clock,  and 
will  swear  that  no  one  left  the  house  before  two 


1 66  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

o'clock,  because  the  parlour  opens  onto  the  lobby 
and  the  door  was  ajar.  At  four  o'clock  I  was 
wakened  by  the  front  door  banging.  The  next 
morning  Mr.  Greatbatch  rang  for  his  breakfast  to 
be  brought  up  to  him  at  eight  o'clock,  and  there  was 
no  one  in  the  room  but  him.  The  servant  had  got 
up  at  six.  Therefore  the  lady  in  question  must  have 
left  the  house  beween  two  o'clock  and  six.   I '" 

"That's  enough,"  Lawrence  murmured,  his  sensi- 
bilities utterly  outraged.  He  was  so  ashamed  and 
distressed  that  he  had  no  emotion  left  to  be  angry. 

"Yes,  isn't  it?"  said  Pennington,  with  calm  satis- 
faction. "But  there's  more:  'I  do  not  remember 
exactly " 

"Please  don't  read  any  more,"  Lawrence  re- 
quested in  a  trembling  voice. 

Pennington  gazed  at  him  over  the  edge  of  the 
paper  apparently  astonished.  But  it  did  not  take 
Pennington  more  than  five  minutes  to  grasp  a 
situation.     He  flattered  himself  on  his  perspicacity. 

Abruptly  he  folded  up  the  paper. 

"I'll  write  to  agents  by  to-night's  post,"  he  said 
in  a  low  tone,  "with  this.  They  do  everything,  you 
know,  in  matrimonial  cases.  We  shall  have  the 
petition  down  by  return.  As  for  the  affidavit  in 
support  —  By  the  way,  here's  that  photograph,  shall 
you   keep   it.^"' 

He  left  the  room,  closing  the  door  very  gently,  as 


AFTERNOON  AND  NIGHT  167 

though  he  had  been  leaving  a  sick  room.     With  all 
his  virtues  he  had  his  moments  of  humanity. 

A  few  minutes  later  Lawrence,  in  a  forlorn  effort 
to  induce  himself  to  work,  rose  and  went  into  Mr. 
Fearns's  office  in  search  of  several  bundles  of  papers 
and  Prideaux's  Conveyancing.  As  he  passed  through 
Pennington's  room  he  had  a  glimpse  of  Pennington, 
whose  penholder  slanted  inwards  from  right  to  left 
in  a  manner  distressingly  pedagogic,  writing  his 
attendances  for  the  morning.  And  he  could  read  on 
the  blue  draft  paper:  "P.D.A.  Division,  Ridware 
V.  R.  and  Greatbatch.  Journey  to  Manifold  and 
attending  Mrs.  Malkin."  It  seemed  to  Lawrence, 
so  rapid  was  the  apparent  march  of  events,  that  he 
was  already  In  the  midst  of  the  Divorce  Court, 
already  entangled  in  the  undergrowth  of  procedure; 
and  yet  the  action  had  not  even  been  commenced. 

In  his  principal's  room,  instead  of  looking  for  papers 
he  dropped  into  his  principal's  pivoted  armchair 
and  laid  his  arms  on  the  desk.  He  was  sick,  weary, 
disgusted.  The  evidence  which  Pennington  had 
collected  revolted  him.  Phyllis  defiling  herself  In 
a  lodging-house,  with  all  the  miserable  accompani- 
ment of  secrecy,  shame,  deceit,  and  genteel  squalour  1 

Had  Phyllis  been  some  other  man's  wife,  he  would 
have  been  more  philosophical.  He  would  have  put 
conventional  morality  In  its  proper  place,  neither 
too  low  nor  too  high.     He  would  probably  have  said 


1 68  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

that  every  one  concerned  was  to  be  pitied,  and  that 
to  distribute  blame  was  inept.  He  might  gently 
have  asked  what  it  mattered  after  all,  since  sorrow 
was  the  very  woof  of  life.  For  Lawrence  was  capable 
of  sitting  on  a  throne  with  renowned  poets  and  sages. 
But  because  Phyllis  happened  to  be  his,  he  suffered 
cruelly.  His  instincts  rose  up  and  inflicted  on  his 
intellect  the  worst  defeat  his  intellect  had  ever  known. 
And  yet  he  had  not  loved  Phyllis  for  years.  Now  he 
hated  her  bitterly. 

There  was  a  rush  along  the  passage,  and  Charles 
Fearns's  surprising,  violent  figure,  took  the  room  as 
it  were  by  assault.  Fearns  was  supposed  to  have 
gone  to  Liverpool  two  hours  before  on  business  of 
which  the  staff  knew  nothing. 

"Stopped  at  last  moment!"  he  growled  angrily. 
"Missed  train.  Get  out  of  my  way,  please.  What 
are  you  doing  here,  Ridware.'"' 

"I'm  looking  for  papers,"  said  Lawrence,  haugh- 
tily, but  quitting  the  chair  in  haste. 

"Here  !  Send  Gater  out  to  cash  me  this  cheque, 
will   you?" 

And  Fearns  pulled  a  cheque  book  from  a  drawer, 
filled  it  in  for  twenty  pounds,  and  gave  it  to  Lawrence. 

"You  haven't  endorsed  it." 

"Oh!  Hell!"  the  principal  exclaimed,  savage. 
"Tell  him  to  run.  I  must  catch  the  three  train  at 
Knype." 


AFTERNOON  AND  NIGHT  169 

Fearns  fumed  at  the  threshold  of  his  room  for  five 
minutes  awaiting  Gater's  return,  and  at  last  went 
out  to  meet  the  boy  on  the  stairs,  after  which  he  was 
no  more  seen.  When  Gater  came  in,  breathless, 
Gater  winked  at  Clowes,  and  Clowes  winked  at 
Gater.  Of  the  entire  staff  Pennington  alone  did  an 
honest  afternoon's  work. 

When  Lawrence  reached  home  in  the  evening,  it 
was  Cousin  Sarah  RIdware  who  opened  the  door  for 
him,  and  the  old  woman  had  a  peculiar  expression  of 
triumph  on  her  face. 

Addressed  as  cousin  by  the  brothers,  Sarah  RId- 
ware was  more  correctly  the  cousin  of  their  father. 
She  was  one  of  those  needy  and  undistinguished 
relations  of  which  a  family  indomitably  ascending 
In  the  social  scale  has  almost  the  right  to  be  ashamed. 
She  stood  at  the  level  of  Lawrence's  grandfather,  a 
potter's  fireman  of  thrifty  habits  who  died  in  1862. 
And,  with  the  brothers,  she  was  all  that  remained 
of  the  blood.  She  had  obstinately  refused  to  rise 
with  Lawrence's  father,  who  had  become  a  traveller 
and,  just  before  his  death,  manager,  for  the  historic 
potting  firm  of  Boones.  To  be  even  an  errand  boy 
at  Boones  conferred  respectability  in  the  seventies. 
And  when  RIdware  senior  passed  away  he  had  half 
a  column  In  the  Signal.  But  Sarah,  who  never 
married,   was   as   unambitious   as   she   was   unsus- 


I70  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

ceptible  to  the  spirit  of  change.  She  had  a  mind  of 
incredible  narrowness,  and  her  independence  was 
ferocious.  At  sixty  she  lived  in  two  rooms  of  a 
cottage  between  Hanbridge  and  Knype,  and  sup- 
ported herself  by  a  needle  that  was  indefatigable. 
She  had  conserved  the  simple  customs  of  her  uncle 
the  fireman.  She  was  astoundingly  proud,  espec- 
ially on  the  way  to  church  In  black  silk.  Shewould 
not  accept  presents  of  money  from  her  nephews. 
She  would  not  call  on  Lawrence.  But  she  expected 
Lawrence  to  call  on  her  from  time  to  time  and  praise 
her  tea,  which  somehow  was  invariably  stewed. 
Mark  also  dared  not  forget  her  during  his  sojourns 
in  the  district.  She  sniflFed  at  the  grandeur  of  the 
brothers,  yet  her  own  importance  by  some  ingenuity 
fed  itself  therefrom.  Her  attitude  said:  "Look  at 
the  splendour  of  what  I  scorn!"  Phyllis  had  paid 
her  one  visit,  of  state,  and  had  absolutely  declined 
to  renew  the  experience.  Sarah's  unique  comment 
was  that  she,  Sarah,  was  not  fine  enough  for  some 
folks  —  with  their  airs. 

Lawrence  had  gone  to  her  on  the  previous  evening. 
She  had  been  shocked,  desolated,  and  delighted  by 
his  news,  and  enormously  flattered  by  his  request 
that  she  should  temporarily  keep  his  house.  She 
had  made  her  consent  a  great  favour,  but  she 
had  gone  with  him  nearly  at  once,  he  carrying  a 
tiny  tin  trunk  of  hers  with  a  most  uncomfortably 


AFTERNOON  AND  NIGHT  171 

thin  handle.  As  a  fact,  she  loved  Lawrence,  though 
her  love  was  of  a  highly  singular  kind.  In  a  mu- 
seum of  affections  it  would  have  agitated  expert 
amorists,  as  a  specimen  of  a  plant  presumed  to  be 
extinct  will  agitate  botanists. 

That  night  she  had  spoken  no  word  to  the  servant 
Maggie,  but  she  had  vouchsafed  to  Lawrence  that 
she  could  not  abide  wenches!  The  tin  trunk  con- 
tained chiefly  clean  white  aprons,  one  of  which  she 
had  donned  immediately  on  arrival.  Before  re- 
tiring to  bed  she  had  read  a  chapter  of  the  Bible 
aloud  to  Lawrence.  She  was  tall  and  flat,  with  wiry 
gray  hair  and  blue  eyes,  and  she  did  not  wear 
spectacles. 

"Well,"  she  began  in  her  thin  voice,  having  opened 
the  door  to  Lawrence  on  the  second  evening.  "  Here's 
a  nice  how  d'ye  do!  Her's  sent  a  man  with  a  cart 
up  for  her  things.  I  pretty  soon  packed  him  off 
about  his  business,  I  can  tell  you." 

"Who  has  sent.?" 

"Her!  I  told  him  to  come  again  when  the  master 
was  at  home." 

"When  did  the  messenger  come.?" 
'He  has  but  just  gone." 
'No  note  or  anything.?" 

"Yes.  A  note  to  the  servant^  if  you  please,  tellin' 
what  things  her  wanted  —  in  the  wardrobe,  and  in 
th'  chest  o'  drawers,  and  a  fan,  and  a  dress  basket." 


172  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

"Is  the  man  coming  back?" 

"He  said  as  he  should.  He's  no  doubt  at  the 
public  down  yonder,  swilling." 

"I'd  better  tell  Maggie  to  put  the  things  together 
at  once." 

Cousin  Sarah  paused. 

"Maggie's  gone,"  she  said,  shortly  and  firmly. 

"Gone.?     What   for.?" 

"I  told  ye  I  was  none  for  wenches,  lad.  Her's 
gone  home.  I'd  liefer  do  the  wurk  myself,  big  as 
th'  house  is,  than  stand  by  and  see  a  trollop  dally- 
ing round." 

Lawrence  made  no  answer.  He  shut  the  front 
door,  hung  up  his  "hat,  and  stifled  a  sigh. 

"Supper  ready.?"   he  asked. 

"It  will  be  by  the  time  you  are,"  said  Cousin 
Sarah.     "I'm  toasting  a  bit  of  cheese." 

The  supper  comprised  toasted  cheese,  the  fleshy 
remains  of  dinner,  thick  bread  and  butter,  part  of 
a  fruit  pie,  and  tea,  which  Cousin  Sarah  had 
succeeded  in  stewing;  all  the  courses  were  served 
simultaneously.  It  was  a  repast  of  her  father's 
infancy,  distributed  by  Sarah's  bony  and  needle- 
blackened  hands  with  their  bitten  finger  naih. 
Lawrence  ate  parts  of  It  without  comment.  Like 
most  narrow-minded  people,  Cousin  Sarah  dwelt 
happily  in  the  absolute  conviction  of  being  right 
upon  every  subject  on  which  she  put  herself  to  the 


AFTERNOON  AND  NIGHT  173 

trouble  of  forming  an  opinion.  The  mere  ex- 
pression on  her  face  was  a  proof  of  her  certitude  that 
the  meal  was  an  ideal  meal.  She  was  never  dis- 
turbed by  doubts,  either  concerning  the  ultimate 
destiny  of  the  universe  or  the  best  manner  of  making 
tea.  Lawrence  therefore  merely  determined  to 
abandon  the  tenancy  of  the  house  and  to  find  lodg- 
ings as  soon  as  possible. 

"Eh,  lad,"  she  observed  in  the  middle  of  a  desert 
of  silence.  "I  never  thought  as  a  Ridware  would 
ha'  come  to  this!  I  never  thought  it!"  Which 
remark  was  honestly  meant  to  comfort  him  in  his 
marital    misfortune. 

The  return  of  Phyllis's  messenger  diverted  him 
from  the  fruit  pie.  He  went  dully  upstairs,  and 
began  to  put  into  the  dress  basket  the  various  things 
which  his  wife  had  demanded.  Cousin  Sarah 
helped  him,  criticizing  Mrs.  Ridware's  linen  and 
dresses  by  means  of  facial  contortions.  Then  there 
was  a  ring  at  the  door, 

"Bless  us!"   said   Cousin   Sarah. 

"I'll  go,"  said  Lawrence.  Phyllis's  messenger 
was  waiting  in  the  hall,  a  self-conscious  young 
man  who  twirled  his  cap  in  his  hands  under  the 
hall  lamp. 

Lawrence  opened  to  Annunciata  Fearns.  She 
stood  there  tall,  slim,  pale,  distinguished,  with 
the  aspect  of  a  heavenly  visitant,  of  some  creature 


174  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

fragile  and  angelic,  exquisitely  and  marvellously- 
different  from  Cousin  Sarah,  and  so  young,  so  touch- 
ing In  her  youth.  She  was  a  sight  to  startle  Lawrence 
at  such  an  hour,  and  he  jumped  with  apprehension. 
He  thought  of  what  Phyllis  had  shamefully  said,  and 
how  strange  were  the  hazards  of  life. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Ridware,"  she  spoke  quickly 
and  nervously,  "I'm  sorry  to  trouble  you  but 
mother  would  be  very  glad  if  you  would  go  and 
see  her." 

"Why,  of  course!  "  he  replied.  "Do  come  in, Miss 
Fearns." 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  murmured.  "I  won't 
come  in.     I  mustn't  stay." 

"Your  mother  wants  to  see  me  to-night.'"' 

"If  it  isn't  troubling  you  too  much." 

"Can  you  wait  five  minutes.'*  I'll  come  with  you 
now,"  he  said. 

"  I  won't  wait,"  she  answered.  "  I'll  go  on,  thank 
you,  and  tell  mother  you're  coming." 

And  she  departed,  with  no  more  words,  very 
mysteriously. 

"What's  up.?"  he  thought,  frightened.  And  he 
ran  upstairs.  "Cousin  Sarah,"  he  said,  "I've  got 
to  go  down  to  Fearns's  immediately.  You  can 
finish  with  those  things.  The  man  will  carry  the 
basket  downstairs.     I'll  be  back  soon." 

He  hurried  after  Annunciata,  without  listening 


AFTERNOON  AND  NIGHT  175 

to  Sarah's  response.  In  a  moment  he  saw  the  girl's 
white  figure  before  him  in  the  dark  road,  hastening 
downward  toward  the  lights  of  Bleakridge  and 
Bursley.  His  first  impulse  was  to  overtake  her. 
But  some  shyness,  some  fear,  held  him  back,  and 
at  a  distance  of  fifty  yards  he  followed  her  under  a 
starry  sky  all  the  way  to  Bleakridge.  At  Fearns's 
garden  gate  he  hesitated,  and  then  went  forward. 
Annunciata  herself  answered  his  ring,  as  he  had 
answered  hers. 

"  You  have  been  quick,"  she  smiled  faintly.  *'  It's 
very  kind  of  you.  Mother's  in  the  drawing-room — 
this   way." 

He  hung  up  his  hat. 

"Nothing  wrong,  I  hope,"  he  ventured. 

She  lifted  her  eyebrows,  opened  the  door  of  the 
drawing-room,   and  vanished. 

Alma  Fearns  was  leaning  against  the  mantelpiece 
when  Lawrence  went  into  the  room.  She  wore  a 
cream-coloured  dress,  with  a  broad  waistband  of 
creased  silk  curving  to  upper  and  lower  points  in 
front.  The  lace-finished  sleeves  were  rather  short, 
showing  her  plump  forearms.  She  looked  pre- 
eminently a  comfortable  woman,  with  a  certain 
elegance  in  her  embonpoint;  and  the  graciousness 
of  her  heart  expressed  itself  in  her  face.  The  per- 
manent cast  of  her  features  showed  an  attitude  of 


176  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

mind  which,  while  not  unhappy,  was  calmly  and 
contentedly  melancholy,  with  the  melancholy  that 
comes  less  from  expectation  having  been  disappointed 
than  from  expectation  having  been  restrained  by 
the  force  of  reason.  She  was  mature;  she  knew 
what  human  nature  was;  she  had  suffered;  she  had 
had  seven  children.  Her  girlhood  was  behind  the 
mist  of  time.  And  yet  now  and  then  she  would 
make  some  gesture,  or  some  naive  glance  would 
flash  in  her  brown  eyes,  that  rolled  away  the  years, 
and  left  her  for  an  instant  as  girlish  as  Annunciata. 
She  had  in  particular  an  unconscious  habit  of  throw- 
ing her  head  back  after  putting  a  question,  a 
habit  that  was  most  curiously  agreeable.  Strangers 
thought  her  stiff  and  chilly,  but  if  acquaintance 
ripened  they  were  soon  amazed  that  they  could  ever 
have  thought  so,  for  her  illimitable  sympathy  was 
really  the  most  salient  thing  about  her. 

She  welcomed  Lawrence,  and  thanked  him,  with 
all  the  generous  warmth  of  her  disposition.  She 
pulled  a  chair  into  position  for  him  with  her  strong 
arm,  and  gave  him  a  cigarette,  and  struck  a  match 
and  held  it  with  a  jewelled  hand.  He  felt  as 
though  he  was  an  invalid  and  she  was  spoiling  him 
as  an  invalid  has  a  right  to  be  spoilt.  A  morceau 
de  salon  of  Chaminade's  stood  on  the  open  piano, 
and  lying  on  a  small  table  was  a  reprint  of  Alexander 
Smith's  Dreamthorp.    Not  in  Lawrence's  house  would 


AFTERNOON  AND  NIGHT  177 

such  examples  of  the  brilliant  second-rate  have  been 
found  conspicuous,  and  his  highly  sensitive  taste 
recoiled  from  them.  Nevertheless  he  said  to  himself 
that  Mrs.  Fearns's  sheer  goodness  and  the  personal 
distinction  that  she  exhaled  were  worth  more  than 
all  the  artistic  taste  in  the  world.  He  would,  at  that 
instant,  have  sacrificed  his  whole  intellectual  and 
aesthetic  equipment  in  exchange  for  the  assurance 
of  passing  the  rest  of  his  life  in  the  atmosphere  that 
he  was  breathing  then.  Mrs.  Fearns  had  good 
blood  and  a  kind  heart:  the  two  things  that  Phyllis 
lacked.  And  he,  the  grandson  of  a  potter's  fireman, 
possessed  emphatically  the  aristocratic  temper. 
When  he  was  differentiating  between  a  masterpiece 
and  an  imitation  of  a  masterpiece,  you  could  see  that 
he  had  the  nostrils  of  an  aristocrat. 

"I'm  going  to  do  something  very  unusual,"  said 
Mrs.  Fearns,  sitting  down  in  the  middle  of  the  sofa. 

"Are  you.?"  he  returned,  full  of  apprehensions. 

"Yes.  I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  let  me  talk  to  you 
about  an  extremely  delicate  matter." 

"Either  Fearns  has  spoken  to  her,"  he  reflected, 
"or  Phyllis  has  been  here  and  made  an  appeal 
for  interference." 

All  the  way  down  from  Toft  End,  he  had  fancied 
something  of  the  sort,  and  now  he  was  sure.  He 
resigned  himself.  If  he  could  tolerate  interference 
from  anybody  he  could  tolerate  it  from  Mrs.  Fearns. 


178  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

He  was,  moreover,  convinced  of  his  power  to  per- 
suade her  that  divorce  was  the  sole  possible  course. 
He  knew  her  common  sense,  her  openness  of  mind. 
Still,  he  regretted  that  her  quick  kindliness  should 
have  misled  her  into  a  futile  enterprise.  It  grieved 
him  to  disappoint  her.  He  wondered,  as  he  had 
often  wondered,  whether  her  mother,  dead  a  dozen 
years,  had  ever  told  her  the  strictly  concealed  history 
of  his  birth  —  that  strange  contradictory  passage  in 
his  virtuous  father's  career — and  if  so,  whether  here- 
in was  the  origin  of  Mrs.  Fearns's  special  sympathetic 
goodness  to  himself.  For  old  Mrs.  Leigh  had  been 
the  only  individual  in  the  Five  Towns  cognizant  of 
that  affair.  He  rather  hoped  that  Mrs.  Leigh  had 
indeed  confided  in  Alma  Fearns. 

As  he  said  nothing,  Mrs.  Fearns  proceeded: 

"It  was  Annunciata  who  suggested  sending  for 
you.  I  said  no.  But  she  insisted  and  I  gave  way. 
And  do  you  know,  I  wish  I  had  not  given  way,  now." 
She   smiled   timidly. 

"So  do  I!"  thought  Lawrence.  "Annunciata 
discussing  my  divorce!"     He  blushed  with  shame. 

"To-morrow,"  said  Mrs.  Fearns,  and  then  paused, 
"I  am  leaving  this  house." 

Her  tone,  and  the  faint  tremor  in  her  voice  on  the 
first  word,  seemed  to  convict  him  suddenly  of  the 
most  stupid  blindness.  He  stirred  uneasily  as  his 
mind  groped  about  for  new  bearings. 


AFTERNOON  AND  NIGHT  179 

"With  my  children,"  Mrs.  Fearns  added. 

"You  are  leaving  Mr.  Fearns.'"'  he  asked,  on  a 
note  of  the  extremest  astonishment. 

She  leaned  forward  to  him,  with  her  elbows  on 
her  knees,  the  forearms  horizontal  and  the  hands 
restlessly  clasping  each  other. 

"Surely  you  aren't  so  very  surprised!"  she  said 
quietly. 

"Well "  he  temporized. 

"Are  you.^'  she  insisted. 

"No,"  he  bluntly  answered.  "At  least,  I  am, 
and  I  am  not." 

"You  mean,  I  suppose,"  she  remarked  coldly, 
sitting  up  straight,  "that  as  I  have  lived  here  so 
long,  I  might  have  stayed  a  little  longer." 

"That's  not  quite  what  I  mean,  but  it's  near 
enough.     I'm  very  sorry  to  hear  this." 

"Was  Charlie's  manner  at  all  strange  in  the  office 
to-day  .f"'  she  demanded. 

"I  thought  he  was  excited,"  said  Lawrence,  "just 
before  he  went  to  Liverpool.  He's  not  coming 
back  then,  to-night.'"' 

Mrs.  Fearns  shook  her  head.  "If  he  were,  I 
should  not  be  here  now." 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  he  repeated.  He  could  think 
of  nothing  else  to  say.  He  had  a  feeling  of  pro- 
found and  contemptuous  anger  against  Fearns,  but 
he  could  not  express  that  to  Fearns's  wife.     For  the 


i8o  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

rest,  he  was  puzzling  to  discover  what  might  have 
been  the  last  and  worst  of  his  employer's  Iniquities. 

"You  see,"  said  Mrs.  Fearns,  "I  know  Charlie. 
Nobody  knows  him  as  I  do.  I  expect  many  people 
think  I'm  blind,  and  say  'Poor  thing!'  He  has  nearly 
always  been  very  nice  to  me,  though  he  has  often 
made  me  suffer  frightfully.  I  liked  him.  I  was 
comfortable  with  him.  When  I  came  into  a  room 
and  he  was  there,  I  had  a  feeling  of  pleasure.  I 
understand  him.  I  know  his  faults,  perhaps  better 
than  I  do  my  own.  I  knew  he  used  to  go  after  other 
women.  When  I  first  realized  that,  it  almost  killed 
me.  But  I  got  accustomed  to  it.  You  may  think 
I'm  a  very  strange  woman,  and  perhaps  I  am,  but 
yet  I  don't  think  I  am.  Yes,  I  got  accustomed  to 
it.  You  see,  I  have  had  a  comfortable  feeling  with 
Charlie.  I  can't  explain  it.  It's  love,  I  suppose. 
I  was  sure  he  admired  me  tremendously.  You 
know,  Mr.  Ridware"  —  her  voice  became  exquisitely 
soft —  "one  can't  have  everything  in  this  world. 
One  has  to  make  the  best  of  it.  So  I  got  accustomed 
to  it.  What  could  I  have  done?  He  couldn't  be 
cured,  you  know.  He's  incurable.  I  used  to  wait 
for  him  to  come  back  to  me.     He  always  did." 

"But   now.?" 

She  bit  her  lip,  and  looked  at  the  fire-screen. 
"Charlie  has  ceased  to  be  a  gentleman.  I  trusted 
him  absolutely.     But  I  was  wrong.     I  see  now  that 


AFTERNOON  AND  NIGHT  i8i 

men  like  my  poor  Charles  can't  be  expected  to  re- 
main gentlemen  for  ever  ...  I  went  away  from 
the  house  to  see  my  sister  in  Birmingham  with 
the  most  perfect  confidence.  And  in  my  absence, 
Mr.  Ridware,  my  husband  makes  love  to  the  gov- 
erness, here,  in  the  house,  and  he  is  so  clumsy, 
or  careless,  or  callous — call  it  what  you  like — that 
the  person  who  has  the  task  of  telling  me  about  it 
when  I  come  home  is  my  own  daughter.  What 
can  one  do.?" 

She  was  tapping  with  her  foot  on  the  carpet. 

''It  is  terrible!"     Lawrence  exclaimed  in  a  low 

voice.     "I  had  no  idea "     His  face  was  working 

and  there  was  a  slight  haze  before  his  eyes.  The 
world  seemed  to  be  full  of  odious  and  revolting  sen- 
suality and  of  its  victims.  Life  stank.  And  here 
was  this  soft  and  delicate,  forgiving  creature  outraged 
to  such  a  point  that  she  could  forgive  no  more! 
And  upstairs,  hidden  away  somewhere,  there  cowered 
a  young  girl,  who  should  surely  be  deemed  as  much 
a  martyr  as  her  mother.  He  did  not  forget  his  own 
woes.     He  added  these  others  to  them. 

"I'm  telling  you  all  this,"  said  Mrs.  Fearns,  gazing 
at  him  again.  "I  don't  know  why  I  should.  I 
hope  you  don't  mind.  Of  course  you're  In  Charlie's 
office,  and  It  might  make  difficulties  between  you 
and  him.  If  he  knew  —  I  ought  to  have  thought 
of  that." 


i82  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

"Please  don't  think  of  that  for  a  moment,"  Law- 
rence urged  fiercely.  "Not  for  a  moment!  In  the 
firstplace  Mr.  Fearns  isn't  the  sort  of  man  to  be  mean, 
and  in  the  second  place  I  shouldn't  care  a  pin  if  it 
did  make  difficulties." 

"I  really  couldn't  think  of  any  one  whom  I  could 
talk  to  as  well  as  you.  I  have  some  women  friends 
from  whom  I  could  be  sure  of  sympathy,  but  I 
wanted  more  than  sympathy  to-night.  And  besides, 
I  would  sooner  talk  to  a  man.  Now  you  think  I 
ought  to  leave,  don't  you  ^  After  what  has  occurred, 
we  could  never  live  here  again  on  the  same  terms. 
Imagine  Annunciata!     Isn't  it  awful  .f"' 

"She  —  do  you  mean  to  say  that,  supposing  you 
brought  an  action  against  Mr.  Fearns,  she  would 
have  to  give  evidence.'"' 

Mrs.  Fearns  nodded.  "I  feel  just  as  if  it  wasn't 
real,"  she  said,  with  a  shiver.  "But  it  is  real.  It 
is  real.  And  do  you  know,  I  ought  to  have  foreseen 
it.  That's  where  I  was  wrong.  I  was  a  simpleton. 
At  the  bottom  of  my  soul,  I'm  not  at  all  surprised 
that  it's   occurred." 

"Aren't  you.'"'  he  said  sympathetically.  And 
quite  suddenly  the  interview  seemed  to  shift  to  a 
much  more  intimate  plane,  and  his  constraint 
vanished. 

"No,"  she  asserted  stoutly.     "Not  at  all." 

"Well,"  he  said,  "You  are  certainly  quite  right 


AFTERNOON  AND  NIGHT  183 

to  go,  and  to  take  your  children.  In  fact,  that  is 
the  only  thing  you  can  do." 

"  I'm  relieved  you  think  so.  But  it's  past  arguing. 
I  would  do  almost  anything  for  Charlie,  and  I  can't 
tell  you  how  sorry  I  am  there's  no  way  out  of  it. 
But  after  all,  it  isn't  my  fault.  And  I  have  my 
children  to  think  of,  especially  Annunciata.  Suppose 
I  did  pass  this  over,  for  the  sake  of — Oh,  no!  no! 
no!"  She  made  a  wild  gesture  with  her  hands. 
"The  idea  is  ridiculous.  Our  married  life  is  ended. 
Poor  Charlie  has  finished  it.  Now  will  you  tell  me 
a  good  solicitor  I  can  go  to.^" 

"For  the   divorce?" 

"It  won't  be  divorce,  will  it.^"  she  asked.  "I 
don't  understand  these  things.  But  I  thought  it 
would  only  be  judicial  separation.  I  was  under  the 
impression  that  for  a  wife  to  get  a  divorce  she  has 
to  prove  cruelty  or  desertion." 

"That  is  so." 

"What  a  shame!"  She  jumped  up  from  the  sofa 
in  the  swift  heat  of  her  protest. 

"Yes,  it's  a  shame,"  Lawrence  agreed.  "But 
there's  'legal'  cruelty.  And  I  think  —  I'm  not 
sure — that  adultery  in  the  household  is  legal 
cruelty." 

He  stumbled  over  the  phrase;  he  had  the  usual 
masculine  cowardice  about  crystallizing  a  shameful 
thing  in  a  definite  form  of  words. 


1 84  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

"It  ought  to  be,"  said  Mrs.  Fearns.  "I  hope  it 
is.  A  judicial  separation  is  neither  one  thing  nor 
the  other.  What  I  need  for  the  sake  of  my  children 
is  a  real  and  final  separation,  a  divorce.  I  did  not 
think  I  could  get  it,  but  if  I  can,  so  much  the  better. 
Now  what  about  a  solicitor?" 

"Oh!"  Lawrence  answered.  "You  must  go  to 
Bradwells,  and  see  Cyples." 

"Cyples.?     Yes,  he's  very  good,  isn't  he.'"' 

"He's  the  best  in  this  district.  But  if  you  are 
going  away,  perhaps  you'd  prefer  a  complete  stranger. 
Where  do  you  mean  to  go  to?" 

"I  thought  of  Folkestone  or  Sandgate.  Emily 
is  at  school  at  Folkestone.  Annunciata  suggested 
Llandudno.  But  in  another  six  or  eight  weeks  half 
Bursley  will  be  at  Llandudno.  We  must  be  by  our- 
selves for  a  long  time." 

"Exactly,"  he  agreed. 

"And  I've  lived  in  Trafalgar  Road  here  all  my 
life!"  she  said.  In  silence  he  put  the  end  of  his 
cigarette  in  an  ash-tray  by  the  side  of  a  Dreamthorp. 

"Then  perhaps  you'd  like  the  name  of  a  good 
solicitor  in  Folkestone?" 

"No,"  she  said.  "It  would  be  the  same  as  going 
to  a  strange  doctor.  I  think  I  should  prefer  Brad- 
wells.  Indeed  I  believe  old  Mr.  Bradwell  used  to 
act  for  my  father  up  to  the  time  when  I  married 
Charlie.     Then  what  business   there  was  went  to 


AFTERNOON  AND  NIGHT  185 

Charlie.     We  can  meet  somewhere,  no  doubt,  they 
and    I." 

"Anyhow  Folkestone  will  be  handy  for  London. 
Their  London  agents  will  attend  to  things,  you  know." 

There  was  a  silence.  Mrs.  Fearns  stood  on  the 
hearth-rug,  leaning  slightly  forward.  Lawrence 
tried  to  think  of  some  way  of  helping  her,  of  ex- 
pressing his  sympathy  by  more  than  words.  But 
he  could  not.  She  appeared  so  equal  to  the  emer- 
gency, so  conversant  with  her  own  mind,  so  capable, 
and  so  fearless,  that  to  offer  aid  would  have  had  the 
air  of  an  impertinence. 

I  suppose  the  governess  has  gone,"  he  said. 
'Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Fearns  absently,  "she  had 
the  grace  to  leave  us."  And  in  this  sentence  he 
fancied  he  could  detect  a  faint  but  bitter  touch  of 
scorn.  She  dropped  her  arms  heavily.  "Oh,"  she 
burst  out,  "It's  the  trial!  It's  the  trial  that  I 
dread.  I  don't  feel  this.  No,  really,  I  don't  seem 
to  feel  it  yet.  I  only  feel  tired.  But  when  I  think 
of  the  trial,  I  feel  sick.  Still,  we  are  in  for  it,  and 
it  has  to  be  gone  through.  It  will  be  just  as  bad  for 
Charlie.     Worse    indeed!" 

"The  wisest  thing,"  observed  Lawrence,  "is  not 
to  think  in  advance.  To-morrow  you  are  going 
away.  Think  only  of  that.  Don't  look  further 
than  Folkestone.  What  train  are  you  taking? 
Have  you  considered  the  trains?" 


1 86  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 


IC 


'Yes,"  she  said  calmly.  "I  shall  take  the  noon 
train  to  London,  and  we  shall  just  catch  the  4.23 
at  Charing  Cross.  You  see  I've  done  it  several 
times  with  Emily." 

"And  when  would  you  like  to  see  Mr.  Cyples.' 
Because  I  think  I  know  where  he  can  be  found  to- 
night, and  I  could  hunt  him  up  and  arrange  an 


interview." 


"That's  very  nice  of  you,"  she  said.  "I  wish 
you  would.     Would  he  come  here?" 

"Of  course." 

"Ask  him  to  be  here  by  ten  o'clock  to-morrow 
morning.  Annunciata  and  I  will  do  all  the  packing 
to-night.  We  shall  leave  the  house  at  eleven.  I 
want  to  leave  as  soon  as  possible  —  in  case  Charlie 
might  be  coming  back.  But  he  won't  be  back 
before    lunch." 

"He  will  go  to  the  office  first,"  said  Lawrence. 

"Yes,"  she  concurred,  "He's  sure  to  go  to  the 
office  first.     And  I  want  you  to  tell  him.     Will  you .?" 

Lawrence  started,  diffident  as  ever  in  front  of  any 
enterprise. 

"That  you  have  gone."*  You  aren't  writing  to 
him,    then?" 

"No,"  she  cried,  with  sudden  emphasis.  "I 
can't  write,  and  I  won't.  I  am  just  going  —  that's 
all — with  my  children,  and  Martha,  the  youngest 
maid.     I  shall  leave  him  his  house,  and  the  other 


AFTERNOON  AND  NIGHT  187 

servants,  and  he  will  do  as  he  pleases.  He  will  find 
everything  in  order.  But  I  can't  bring  myself  to 
write  to  him.     There  are  some  things  one  can't  do." 

She  resumed  her  seat  on  the  sofa. 

"Yes,  I  will  tell  him,  certainly." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said. 

"He  knows  you  know.^"' 

"I  should  be  very  much  surprised  if  he  didn't. 
Oh,  he  must  know.  They  must  have  seen  each 
other,  after  she  knew  that  Annunciata  had  seen. 
Oh,  she  went  like  a  lamb,  so  it  appears.  She  didn't 
come  to  the  office.^" 

"The    governess.''     No." 

"Then  probably  they  made  their  plans  before 
either  of  them  left  the  house.  Was  this  journey 
to  Liverpool  arranged  beforehand  .f"' 

'  No.   No  one  in  the  office  knew  anything  about  it.'* 
But  there  is  business  in  Liverpool.^'* 
'Yes.     There  are  one  or  two  things  that  he  might 
have  gone  to  Liverpool  for." 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Mrs.  Fearns.  "Trust 
Charlie  to  have  a  good  excuse!  He  went  to  Liver- 
pool to  be  out  of  the  way  when  I  returned,  and  he's 
sent  her  to  London." 

"Why  do  you  say  London .f"' 

"Because  of  the  labels  on  the  trunks  she  has  left 
to  be  forwarded.     I  wonder  what  they  mean  to  do  ? " 
He  will   get  rid  of  her,"   said   Lawrence  with 


ti- 
lt 


II- 


i88  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

savage  curtness.  He  could  not  prevent  himself 
from  saying  it,  nor  could  he  control  his  tone.  The 
explosion  gave  him  relief.  For  the  instant  he 
didn't  care  whether  he  shocked  Mrs.  Fearns  or  not. 

She  mused. 

"Tell  him,"  she  said,  In  a  tender  and  dissolving 
voice,  "that  I  said  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done. 
And  so  I'm  doing  it.  I  shall  never  see  him  again." 
Then  her  accent  changed.  "Except  at  the  trial. 
And  yet  yesterday  we  were  happy  enough,  all  of  us, 
in  this  house." 

Lawrence   rose. 

"Good-bye,"    he    said.     "It's  awful,    awful!" 

"Oh!"  she  protested,  with  sweet  mildness.  "One 
has  to  accept  what  comes." 

With  a  shake  of  his  head  he  In  his  turn  protested 
against  her  philosophy.  "I'll  go  and  see  Cyples 
at  once,"  he  said.     They  stood  close  together. 

"Thank  you,"  she  murmured,  taking  his  hand 
and  looking  into  his  face.  "You  know,  Mr.  Rid- 
ware,  you  have  considerable  influence  over  Charlie." 

"I!"     He  was  astounded. 

"Yes,  he's  afraid  of  your  bad  opinion." 

"Well,  I  never  guessed  it,"  said  Lawrence, 
flattered. 

"Oh,  but  he  Is.  So  if  he  talks  to  you,  don't 
hesitate  to  talk  back." 

"I  won't.     Good-bye." 


AFTERNOON  AND  NIGHT  189 

She  came  out  with  him  into  the  tiled  hall,  where 
the  gas  burnt  steady  and  solitary  in  an  atmosphere 
quite  different  from  that  of  the  drawing  room,  an 
atmosphere  of  suspense  and  mystery.  The  clock 
drawled  its  eternal  tick-tick.  Mats  lay  brooding 
before  the  closed  solemnity  of  empty  rooms.  Shad- 
ows clad  the  angle  where  the  side  passage  led  to  the 
kitchen  —  apparently  far  off.  The  stairs  slanted 
strangely  upward  into  black  gloom.  And  there 
was  the  disturbing  sense  of  human  life,  hiding  out 
of  sight  behind  the  veils. 

They  trod  softly. 

"Good  night,  Mrs.  Fearns,"  he  whispered.  He 
could  scarcely  speak. 

She  pulled  the  stiff  latch  of  the  heavy  front  door 
and  swung  it  open. 

"Why,"  she  said  kindly,  *'you  take  it  harder  than 
I  do." 

"No  I  don't,"  he  answered  hastily.  "But  all  the 
same  I'm  just  going  into  the  divorce  court  myself. 
My  wife  has  left  me  no  alternative.  I'm  fixed  like 
you  are.     So  I  understand." 

He  escaped  like  a  criminal  through  the  door- 
way, and  hurried  down  the  dark  garden,  ignor- 
ing her  exclamation.  Outside  the  gate  he  stayed 
for  a  moment  in  the  shade  of  the  gate  post. 
Then  he  heard  the  low  clang  of  the  front  door 
shutting. 


190  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

Striking  the  blue  sparks  at  regular  intervals  on 
its  aerial  wire,  the  Hanbridge  car  came  noisily  up 
out  of  Bursley  along  Trafalgar  Road,  that  thorough- 
fare which  under  one  alias  or  another  traverses  the 
Five  Towns  from  end  to  end.  It  staggered  across 
the  rough  points  opposite  the  King's  Head  Hotel 
and  waited  on  the  loop  for  the  Bursley  car  to  pass. 
Lawrence  boarded  it,  nodding  to  the  conductor  and 
taking  the  seat  on  the  rear  platform.  In  the  in- 
terior, ornamented  with  advertisements  of  soap 
and  of  boots,  and  exhortations  to  respect  the  floor, 
were  two  shawled,  bare-headed  women,  half  asleep, 
the  only  passengers.  Lawrence  lit  his  pipe  and 
smoked  stolidly  as  the  vast  vehicle,  so  typical  of  the 
Five  Towns,  resumed  its  jerky  and  deafening  pil- 
grimage to  Hanbridge,  past  the  hoardings,  the 
churches  and  chapels,  the  little  manufactories,  the 
little  shops,  and  the  little  Indian-red  houses.  This 
was  the  inmost  heart  of  the  Five  Towns,  and  noth- 
ing was  altered  in  it.  And  yet  Lawrence  had  a 
foolish  feeling  of  astonishment  that  everything  was 
not  altered.  Although  he  had  heard  many  and 
many  a  startling  lascivious  story  of  the  district, 
although  he  knew  that  in  Hanbridge  alone  five 
hundred  frail  ones  served  the  Goddess  by  night,  he 
had  never  till  now  realized  that  human  nature  was 
the  same  within  as  without  the  Five  Towns,  and  it 
was  as  if  some  change  had  occurred  therein,  and  as 


AFTERNOON  AND  NIGHT  191 

if  the  dark  frontages  of  the  very  street  itself  ought 
to  speak  of  it.  He  too,  in  his  time,  had  Hved  in 
Trafalgar  Road.  He  could  hear  Mrs.  Fearns's  voice, 
rich  with  sorrow  and  resignation,  saying:  "And 
I've  lived  in  Trafalgar  Road  all  my  life!"  And  in 
the  sad  and  passionate  enthusiasm  of  the  moment 
he  told  himself  that  a  pure,  intelligent  and  coura- 
geous woman,  who  has  kept  warm  the  fires  of  a  kind 
heart,  was  the  superior  of  all  other  created  beings. 
His  soul  melted  with  sympathy  for  those  two  hapless 
creatures  trailing  on  the  morrow  with  a  couple  of 
children  and  a  servant  and  luggage  from  Bursley  to 
a  vague  destination  in  Folkestone,  driven  out  with 
shame  and  lashes  from  all  that  was  theirs. 

The  car  breasted  the  hill  into  Hanbridge,  screeched 
round  sharp  curves,  and  drew  up  with  a  spasm 
beneath  the  electric  globes  of  Crown  Square. 
Other  cars  were  absorbing  crowds  of  revellers 
from  the  theatre  and  the  music-hall;  and  the  public- 
houses  had  just  dismissed  their  jolly  customers  full 
of  the  pride  of  life,  and  their  taciturn  customers 
full  of  philosophy  which  they  never  imparted  to  the 
world.  Lawrence  got  off  the  car  and  directed  his 
steps  to  the  Conservative  Club,  where  he  knew  that 
Cyples  generally  finished  the  evening. 


CHAPTER  VI 

RENEE 

ON  THE  beautiful  morning  when  Annunciata 
took  her  young  brothers  out  for  an  early 
walk,  Annunciata's  father  left  his  house 
hurriedly,  and  rather  late,  to  go  to  the  office.  He 
had  had,  as  usual,  very  little  breakfast,  but  on  the 
other  hand  he  had  foregone  no  detail  of  that  sacred 
rite,  his  bath,  and  he  looked  and  felt  himself  to  be  in 
splendid  physical  health.  As  he  passed  with  firm 
rapid  gait  up  Trafalgar  Road  in  the  direction  of 
Hanbridge,  he  could  not,  even  in  smiling,  avoid  a 
sigh  of  relief.  Certainly  he  had  committed  indis- 
cretions in  the  house  before,  but  many  years  ago, 
and  quite  minor  indiscretions  compared  to  the 
supreme  indiscretion  of  the  previous  night.  He  was 
bound  to  admit  that  he  had  been  uncommonly  fool- 
ish. He  almost  shivered  when  he  thought  of  the 
risks  he  had  run.  And  his  smile  had  the  inane 
braggart  quality  of  one  who  has  just  crossed  with 
false  leisureliness  in  front  of  an  oncoming  train  and 
is  beginning  to  realize  the  danger  escaped.     From 

192 


RENEE  193 

the  first  every  Instinct  of  prudence  had  counselled 
him  to  leave  Renee  alone.  But  circumstances  and 
Renee  had  been  too  much  for  prudence.  He  recalled 
the  morning  after  breakfast  when  she  had  happened 
to  come  into  the  hall  while  he  was  brushing  his  hat, 
and  had  spoken  to  him  with  a  curious  languor,  and 
how  the  idea  that  she  was  desirable  and  not  im- 
pregnable had  pierced  his  brain  suddenly  like  a 
little  dart  of  a  revelation.  Similar  ideas  concerning 
women  invariably  struck  him  in  that  way.  It  was 
as  if  he  were  inoculated  with  a  minute  drop  of  virus 
which  spread  through  his  system,  despite  all  his 
efforts,  until  there  was  only  one  cure.  He  had 
never,  unaided,  fought  successfully  against  the 
poison  of  the  virus.  But  in  the  special  case  of  Renee 
he  had  most  decidedly  not  meant  to  yield.  Indeed 
he  had  pretended  that  the  little  dart  had  not  pierced 
him,  that  the  wound  was  only  imaginary.  Renee 
must  be  respected.  Even  he  must  draw  a  line  some- 
where. And  it  seemed  as  if  he  actually  had  arrested 
the  progress  of  the  poison,  when  one  trifling  thing 
after  another  occurred  to  weaken  his  resolution. 
He  had  accidentally  touched  her.  Chance  had 
left  them  alone  together  more  than  once. 
And  then  Alma  had  gone  away!  Alma  had 
gone  away  !  And  Renee,  with  her  sleeves  turned 
up,  had  met  him  at  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
and  he  had  patted  her  on  the  cheek,  and  she  had  not 


194  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

protested.  A  tremendous  force  had  lifted  his  hand 
and  compelled  him  to  pat  her  on  the  cheek;  a  force, 
however,  which  he  thought  he  could  have  resisted 
if  her  sleeves  had  not  been  turned  up.  And  then, 
at  the  end  of  dinner,  owing  to  the  naughtiness  of 
the  children,  matters  had  so  fallen  out  that  he  and 
Renee  were  again  alone  together.  He  had  struggled 
terribly  not  to  lean  over  the  corner  of  the  table  and 
kiss  her.  But  the  tremendous  force  had  conquered 
him  and  he  had  kissed  her.  She  had  looked  down, 
smiled  vaguely,  and  left  the  room.  .  .  .  Why- 
had  he  not  accepted  Annunciata's  suggestion  to  go  to 
the  theatre?  That  might  have  saved  him.  But  no, 
he  could  not.  And  throughout  the  whole  evening 
at  the  club  he  had  suffered  as  he  did  suffer  from  time 
to  time:  an  ignominious  agony.  And  he  had  come 
home  in  the  rain,  and  the  night  air  had  calmed  him. 
And  already,  going  to  bed,  he  was  despising  his 
enemy,  when  lo!  he  had  noticed  that  Renee's  door 
was  not  quite  shut.  The  tremendous  force  had  in- 
sisted that  he  should  push  it  open  and  glance  within. 
He  had  fought,  he  had  struggled  (and  half  a  second 
was  like  hours),  but  in  vain.  He  had  pushed  the 
door  open  and  glanced  within,  and  she  was  sitting  up 
in  bed,  reading!  A  violent  and  exquisite  shudder 
had  shaken  him  from  head  to  foot.  Instantaneously 
he  had  perceived  that  she  must  come  to  his  room, and 
with  a  habitual  gesture,  he  had  invited  her.    .    .    . 


RENEE  195 

Madness!  Yes,  he  agreed  that  it  had  been  mad- 
ness, the  madness  of  a  boy,  not  of  a  man  of  Immense 
experience!  He  must  take  himself  in  hand.  How- 
ever, the  danger,  though  terrific,  was  safely  past, 
and  it  must  not  be  allowed  to  recur.  The  affair  was 
finished.  He  could  manage  Renee.  He  knew 
exactly  how  to  manage  her.  When  the  descent 
became  advisable,  he  had  reconducted  dozens  of 
women  from  the  pinnacle  of  emotion  down  to  the 
everyday  level.  Still,  Renee  was  not  a  mere  nu- 
meral in  the  catalogue  of  dozens.  How  many  times, 
driven  by  relentless  prurience,  had  he  not  besieged 
women  who  did  not  attract  him,  simply  because  they 
seemed  vulnerable!  How  many  times  had  he  not 
loathed  that  which  he  possessed,  and  spent  days  in 
self-disgust  until  his  invincible  passions  had  re- 
covered from  the  blow  and  seized  him  again!  Renee 
could  not  be  classed  in  that  section  of  the  catalogue. 
Renee  was  an  astounding  creature,  a  creature  apart. 
He  said  the  affair  was  finished.  He  said  he  must 
take  himself  in  hand.  Yet  already  before  he  got  to 
Hanbridge  he  was  dreaming  of  Renee,  no  longer 
governess  in  his  household,  but  discreetly  established 
in  some  not  too  distant  spot  where  he  could  visit  her 
and  pass  idyllic  hours.  A  wild,  impossible  dream, 
but  it  brought  a  luscious  smile  to  his  coarse,  hand- 
some face.     There  was  no  hope  for  Charles  Fearns. 

At  the  office  he  read  his  letters,  and  while  he  was 


196  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

reading  them  the  magnitude  of  the  risk  he  had  run 
and  the  danger  he  had  escaped  impressed  him  more 
and  more,  so  preoccupying  him  that  he  was  obliged 
to  read  some  of  the  letters  twice  through  in  order  to 
grasp  their  meaning.  "Well,  anyhow  it's  safely 
over!"  he  murmured,  impatient  with  himself.  Still, 
he  had  a  slight  misgiving  as  to  whether,  if  his  wife 
returned  home  that  day,  he  could  be  capable  of 
behaving  at  dinner  in  a  manner  absolutely  natural. 
He  rang  the  bell.  Clowes  came  in,  shorthand  note- 
book in  hand. 

"Tell  Mr.  Pennington  I  want  him." 

"He's  gone  out,  sir." 

"Gone  out.?     Where.?" 

"To  Manifold,  sir." 

"What  for.?     Do  you  know?" 

"I  think  it's  in  that  matter  of  Mr.  Ridware's, 
sir,"  said  the  thick-set  Clowes  with  a  significant 
intonation  and  a  self-conscious  look. 

Fearns  was  angry.  He  objected  to  Rid  ware 
introducing  a  divorce  case,  and  his  own  divorce  case, 
into  the  office  at  that  juncture.  The  objection  was 
infantile,  indefensible,  but  he  held  it.  The  very 
word  "divorce"  made  him  feel  queer,  as  the  sight  of 
a  bad  street  accident  might  have  made  him  feel 
queer.  It  touched  him  too  nearly.  It  gave  him 
to  think  most  unpleasantly.  He  was  in  such  a  state 
that  even  the  greatest  master  of  diplomacy  could  not 


RENEE  197 

have  handled  the  case  of  Ridware  v.  Ridware  In  a 
style  to  satisfy  him.  Certainly  he  had  said  that 
Pennington  should,  under  his  supervision,  assume 
charge  of  the  case,  but  Pennington  had  no  right  to 
go  running  off  to  Manifold  without  notice  and  with- 
out permission.  Pennington  took  too  much  upon 
himself.  Was  the  entire  business  of  the  office  to  be 
dislocated  because  Ridware,  who  was  an  unpractical 
fool,  chose  to  rush  Into  the  divorce  court.''  He  strove 
to  master  his  resentment. 

"Take  down  these  letters,"  he  commanded 
abruptly. 

"Yes,  sir," said  Clowes  with  servile  alacrity,  sitting 
down,  and  taking  a  pencil  from  behind  his  ear.  The 
telephone  bell  rang  outside. 

"Gentlemen.  Mayor  and  Corporation  of  Han- 
bridge  V.  Clarke.  I  am  In  receipt  of  your  letter  of 
yesterday  and  observe.     Yours  truly." 

There  were  mornings  when  he  snapped  out  his 
letters  curt  and  brief,  like  that,  without  a  dispensable 
word.  He  was  just  giving  the  name  of  the  address 
when  Gater  entered. 

"You're  wanted  on  the  telephone,  sir,"  said 
Gater,  with  the  casualness  of  an  ofhce  boy  who 
knows  that  the  supply  of  office  boys  is  unequal  to 
the   demand. 

"Who  is  it  wants  me.''" 

"I  don't  know,  sir." 


198  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

*'Well,  go  and  see,  you  stupid  fellow!"  Fearns 
grumbled  with  increasing  irritation,  and  continued 
to   dictate. 

"They  say  it's  a  lady,  sir,"  said  Gater  coming 
back.     "No  name,  sir." 

And  Fearns  felt  a  sudden  and  dreadful  sinking  of 
the  heart.  Some  intuition  warned  him  then  of  the 
calamity  that  was  overtaking  him;  and  he  rose  and 
went  to  the  telephone  in  silence,  with  a  physical 
sense  of  nausea.  The  telephone  was  in  a  corner  of 
the   corridor. 

"Who's  there?"  he  asked,  trying  to  find  jauntiness 
in  the  hope  that  it  was  his  wife  in  Birmingham,  or 
Annunciata  bent  on  the  satisfaction  of  some  girlish 
caprice. 

"  Cest  moi!  "  came  the  reply. 

He  recognized  the  voice,  and  he  understood  a 
little  French.  What  had  happened .''  What  did 
she  want.^"  She  had  him  at  her  mercy  at  the  end  of 
the  wire:  so  he  apprehended. 

"Where  are  you.'*"  he  asked. 

"At  the  post-office." 

"What  post-office.?"  He  stared  blankly  at  the 
soiled  card  hung  by  the  side  of  the  little  desk  of  the 
telephone. 

"Hanbridge.  I  must  see  you."  Her  tones, 
rendered  metallic  and  unearthly  in  transmission, 
assailed    his  ears,  against  which  the  long-handled 


RENEE  199 

twin  discs  were  pressed,  like  a  hurried  menace.  Siie 
was  within  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  of  him! 

"  I'll  come  to  you,"  he  replied,  low:  and  still  lower; 
"Be  on  the  pavement."     He  dared  not  argue. 

And  he  rang  off. 

**I  shall  be  back  in  a  few  minutes,"  he  said  gruffly 
to  Clowes,  seizing  his  hat  from  behind  the  door  of 
his  room,  and  walked  slowly  downstairs,  his  hands 
in  his  pockets.  He  really  had  not  thought  that 
Renee  would  play  feminine  tricks  on  him,  would 
attempt  to  take  a  silly  advantage  of  their  intimacy. 
He  had  supposed  her  a  woman  of  extraordinary  good 
sense,  capable  of  conducting  herself  with  a  sagacity 
perfectly  adapted  to  the  situation  created  by  the 
event  of  the  night,  and  of  estimating  that  event  at 
its  proper  value.  Her  behaviour  under  his  caresses 
had  seemed  to  him  little  less  than  a  miracle  of  fitness. 
It  had  enchanted  him.  It  had  differentiated  her 
from  all  the  other  women  who  had  ever  sinned  with 
him.  And  here  she  was  within  twelve  hours  amply 
proving  that  she  was  after  all  no  less  fatuously 
incalculable  than  the  rest.  He  savagely  cursed 
her. 

In  two  minutes  he  had  passed  the  Town  Hall  and 
was  approaching  the  post-office.  He  saw  her  com- 
ing rather  quickly  towards  him.  She  was  very 
plainly  dressed  in  gray,  and  she  carried  an  umbrella 
and    a   hand-bag.     As   they  met   and   stopped,   he 


200  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

raised  his  hat,  against  his  will.     Her  face  was  grave 
but   composed. 

"What  Is  it.^"  he  questioned  her,  with  a  swift, 
shamed  glance.  "Walk  along  with  me  this 
way."  And  he  led  her  down  Spode  Street,  which 
is  a  fairly  quiet  residential  thoroughfare,  marred 
only  by  the  branch  tram  line  that  runs  to  Sneyd 
Vale. 

She  opened  her  gloved  hand  »and  disclosed  a 
letter  folded  up  very  small. 

"Read  that,  my  friend,"  she  said.  "The  cook 
brought  it  to  my  bedroom." 

And  he  read  Annunciata's  note. 

"My  God!"  he  exclaimed.  There  was  the  true 
tragic  ring  in  his  voice  then.  For  a  moment  he 
felt  as  though  he  had  been  through  a  fearful  surgical 
operation  and  had  lost  his  stomach.  He  perspired. 
He  trembled.  Nemesis  had  leapt  upon  him.  The 
worst,  the  unthinkable  had  occurred. 

She  looked  up  at  him  through  her  veil. 
What  can  that  mean?"  he  asked  feebly. 
It  means  that  she  knows,"  said  Renee. 

"But  she  can't  know!"  he  protested.  "How  can 
she  know.^" 

"She  knows."  Renee  repeated  coldly.  "Per- 
haps she  heard  you  kiss  me  after  dinner,  and  had 
suspicions  and  watched  at  night."  She  shrugged 
her  shoulders.     "I   do   not   say.     But  she   knows. 


(C 


RENEE  20I 

The  proof?  When  I  got  up,  the  little  boys  were  not 
in  bed.     She  had  taken  them  away." 

"We  can't  talk  here,"  he  muttered,  gazing  about 
in  alarm.     "What  have  you  done.^" 

"I  have  left,  my  friend,  tout  simplement.  I  have 
packed  my  trunks  and  left." 

"You  ought  not  to  have  done  that,"  he  cried. 
"That  puts  us  in  the  wrong  at  once.  That  gives 
the  damned  show  away.     Why  did  you  do  that.^" 

"I  had  no  intention  to  have  a  scene  with  your 
daughter,"  said  Renee.  "She  knows.  That  is 
enough." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before  I  left  the  house .^" 
he  asked,  exasperated  by  her  calmness. 

"I  tried  to  tell  you.  It  was  dangerous.  I  came 
into  your  bedroom.  You  were  in  the  bathroom. 
Martha  came  up  to  clean  the  corridor.  I  had  scarcely 
time  to  fly  back.  And  she  was  always  there  clean- 
ing. I  could  not  come  out.  You  saw  her.?  Then, 
when  she  had  gone,  you  had  gone  also." 

"Ofcourse  you  could  have  come  out!"  he  protested. 
"You  could  have  waited  for  me  in  the  dining  room. 
You  could  have  done  fifty  things." 

"Do  not  blame  me,"  she  urged,  tranquilly.  "It 
is  shameful." 

In  his  heart  he  told  himself  he  must  behave  like 
an  Englishman  to  this  French  woman.  He  must 
not  be  a  cad.     And  he  searched  frantically  for  a 


202  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

plan.  They  could  not  hold  passionate  discussions 
in  Spode  Street,  under  the  scrutiny  of  a  hundred  bow- 
windows.  He  must  demonstrate  to  her  his  mas- 
culinity.    The  Sneyd  Vale  car  appeared. 

"Take  this  tram,"  he  said.  "Get  off  at  the  canal 
bridge,  and  walk  by  the  canal  side.  I'll  follow  you 
in  a  minute  or  so.     Go  along,  please." 

She  obeyed,  hailing  the  driver,  and  Fearns  raised 
his  hat  with  a  painful  smile,  and  turned  back  toward 
the  centre  of  the  town,  so  as  to  avoid  suspicion. 

He  passed  by  the  front  of  the  Town  Hall  again, 
nodding  to  one  or  two  acquaintances  with  exagger- 
ated cordiality,  for  he  had  to  maintain  to  himself 
his  reputation  for  sang-froid  in  a  crisis;  this  was  by 
no  means  his  first  crisis.  And  he  kept  exhorting 
himself  to  be  steady,  not  to  be  flurried.  The  device 
of  sending  Renee  in  advance  down  to  Sneyd  Vale 
seemed  to  him  pretty  good  for  a  man  called  upon 
to  invent  something  on  the  very  instant.  They 
could  talk  by  the  canal  side;  it  was  one  of  the  few 
spots  in  the  Five  Towns  where  they  could  talk. 
The  difficulties  in  the  path  of  a  famous  rake  in  a 
district  such  as  the  Five  Towns  are  prodigious  and 
demand  prodigious  qualities.  He  was  content  with  the 
Sneyd  Vale  Idea;  he  nourished  his  self-respect  on  the 
Sneyd  Vale  idea,  until  suddenly  he  thought  of  an 
infinitely  better  one,  the  obvious  solution.  He 
ought   to   have  walked   boldly  with   Renee  to   the 


RENEE  203 

cab  stand  in  Crov/n  Square  and  there  taken  a  cab  to 
Longshaw.  They  would  have  had  more  than  half 
an  hour  of  absolute  privacy  in  the  cab;  they  could 
have  called  at  some  shop  In  Longshaw  and  then 
driven  back,  and  the  keenest  noses  in  Hanbridge 
would  have  missed  the  scent.  The  Sneyd  Vale 
idea  was  now  utterly  discredited;  its  clumsiness  and 
the  peril  of  it  became  apparent. 

For  a  moment  he  dreamed  of  suicide.  The  spirit 
was  beaten  out  of  him.  How  he  loathed  himself! 
How  black  was  his  terrible  desperation!  It  was 
incredible  that  he  should  have  been  such  a  fool  last 
night!  And  for  what.^  What  was  it  worth,  this 
brief  commerce  with  women.?  Nothing?  Less  than 
nothing!  He  shuddered  with  disgust  at  the  mere 
thought  of  sexual  pleasure.  Could  a  sane  man  risk 
an  hour's  peace  of  mind  in  order  to  obtain  it?  He 
remembered  the  Arab  proverb  that  fireworks  last 
seven  minutes,  love  seven  seconds,  and  sorrow  the 
rest  of  life.  What  was  the  strange  intoxication 
that  came  over  him  at  sight  of  a  woman?  It  was 
a  delusion.  He  could  conquer  it.  He  would  con- 
quer it.  Once  out  of  this  mess — and  he  would  get 
out  of  it,  he  would  assuredly  get  out  of  it — he  would 
never  again  leave  the  domestic  hearth.  He  had 
learnt  his  lesson,  he  said. 

He  went  through  the  empty  cattle  market,  and 
down  by  a  narrow  road  running  parallel  with  Spode 


204  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

Street.  Yes,  he  must  send  Renee  away:  that  was 
the  preliminary.  And  then  he  must  deal  with  his 
wife  and  Annunclata.  Boldly  he  said  that  he  could 
persuade  them  of  his  Innocence.  But  Annunclata, 
whom  he  had  kept  In  the  background  of  his  mind 
by  force,  sprang  forward  now.  No,  the  thought 
of  Annunclata  being  concerned  In  the  affair  was 
awful!  It  was  so  awful  that  he  could  scarcely  con- 
ceive It.  Like  all  rakes  he  was  extremely  senti- 
mental, especially  In  seasons  of  remorse,  and  he  had 
the  prettiest  Ideals  of  womanly  purity.  And  even 
If  he  had  not  been  sentimental,  even  If  he  had  not 
been  Annunclata's  father,  even  If  In  a  mood  of 
romantic  expansion  he  had  not  chosen  from  a  book 
Annunclata's  name  at  her  birth,  the  thought  of  her 
knowledge  of  his  crime  might  justifiably  have  cowed 
him  Into  despair.  In  a  moment  he  had  lost  all  hope, 
energy,  and  Initiative.  So  his  temper  alternated 
as  he  descended  the  hill  toward  the  vale. 

He  turned  Into  Spode  Street  at  the  bottom,  after 
the  houses  have  come  to  an  end  and  where  the  sooty 
market  gardens  begin.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  further 
on,  the  tram  car,  having  been  to  Sneyd  Vale,  was 
crossing  the  canal  bridge  on  Its  homeward  journey. 
He  went  slackly  forward,  and  the  car,  empty  save 
for  driver  and  conductor,  passed  him.  He  stood  on 
the  canal  bridge  and  glanced  guiltily  from  right  to 
left  along  the  black  towing  path  of  the  canal.   There 


RENEE  205 

was  not  a  sign  of  Renee.  Then  he  went  down  the 
steep  steps  cut  in  the  embankment  of  the  road,  and 
reached  the  level  of  the  canal,  which  for  all  its  foul- 
ness glinted  in  the  sunshine.  She  was  there,  in  the 
deep  shadow  under  the  bridge.  The  towing  path 
was  hard  and  dry  except  under  thebridge,where  mud 
abounded,  and  she  was  holding  her  skirts  nattily 
out  of  the  mud.  She  had  raised  her  veil.  She  gazed 
at  him  sadly,  and,  so  it  seemed  to  him,  humbly,  as 
he  came  near. 

'  "What  have  you  decided.^  "she  asked  in  a  stricken, 
appealing  voice. 

He  felt  at  once  the  peculiar  voluptuous  charm  of 
the  voice.  It  was  the  same  voice,  full  of  languor, 
which  had  fallen  on  his  ear  that  morning  in  the  hall 
of  his  house  while  he  was  brushing  his  hat.  Renee 
was  very  much  shorter  than  he.  And  he  looked 
down  on  her  form,  looked  down  on  those  rounded 
curves,  that  trim  waist,  those  folds  of  the  skirt  that 
her  hands  clutched.  And  if  his  situation  had  not 
been  so  desperate,  the  magic  would  have  enslaved 
his  senses  yet  again.  He  could  have  almost  run 
away  with  her,  and  counted  the  world  well  lost  for 
the  sake  of  a  few  lustful  months.  But  the  vision 
of  an  outraged  Annunciata  checked  the  poison 
in  his  veins.  Moreover,  Renee  herself  wore  an 
expression  which  he  had  not  seen  before  on  her 
piquant  face. 


2o6  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

•"  "Nothing,"  he  said,  with  a  gesture  of  defeat. 
"What  is  there  to  decide?  You've  left  the  house. 
That's  the  difficulty." 

"Ah!'*    she    murmured    rapidly.     "How    I    was 
wrong!     Why    did    I    go     into    your    room     last 
night .^     You    were    wrong.     But    men!     ...     I 
was   more   wrong.     We   were   both   mad.     I   must 
leave  you.     That  is  all  I  can  do.     When  I  am  gone 
your  wife  will  forgive  you.     She  will  help  you  to 
persuade  Annunciata  that  there  was  nothing." 
"Do  you  think  so.?"  he  replied  gloomily. 
But  the  gloominess  was  deliberate  deceit  on  his 
part.     Renee  had  suggested  an  idea  which  appeared 
to  him  really  practical.     He  saw  in  it  his  salvation, 
unhoped    for,   miraculous,    wondrously    beneficent. 
Yesjhe  must  enlist  his  wife's  aid  against  Annunciata; 
that  was  the  plan.     Alma  was  extremely  clever,  and 
had  tremendous  influence  over  her  daughter.     Alma 
was   also   an   angel,   capable   of  forgiveness   to   an 
Indefinite  extent.     He  would  appeal  to  her,  he  could 
not  appeal  in  vain,  for  the  future  of  the  children  wa<= 
at  stake.     He  would    confess    to    Alma,   and    then 
persuade  her  of  the  necessity  of  convincing  Annun- 
ciata that,  whatever  the  girl  had  seen  or  had  not 
seen,    her    conclusions    were    wrong.     The    matter 
would    require    the    nicest    delicacy,    coupled    with 
firmness,  but  Alma  would  succeed.     Of  course  his 
relations  with  his  wife,  while  remaining  normal  on 


RENEE  207 

the  surface,  would  for  a  long  time  be  secretly  pain- 
ful. But  he  could  win  her  back.  He  was  sure  that 
he  could  prove  to  her  that  at  last  he  had  learnt 
his    lesson. 

And  it  was  Rence  who  had  hit  on  this  scheme! 
Women  certainly  did  know  how  to  deal  with  women. 
Men  were  children  compared  to  them.  But  he  did 
not  mean  to  let  her  see  that  she  had  saved  him,  that 
he  was  drowning  when  she  had  stretched  out  a 
hand.  That  would  have  impaired  his  masculine 
dignity.  Hence  he  had  replied  to  her  with  false 
gloom.     Nevertheless  he  appreciated  her. 

And  he  excused  himself  to  himself  by  the  help  of 
the  basic  axiom  of  the  rake's  philosophy — that 
women  exist  for  men  and  fulfil  themselves  only  in 
serving  men.  Renee  was  an  agreeable  little  thing; 
she  was  much  more  than  an  agreeable  little  thing; 
but  she  had  no  rights  as  against  him. 

"I  will  go  now,"  she  said.  "Then  you  will  be 
free   to   act." 

"But  where  shall  you  go.^"  he  demanded,  striving 
to  show  an  interest  in  her  fate,  and  to  hide  his 
relief. 

"That  is  not  your  affair,"  said  she.  "Only  let 
me  leave  you.  Do  not  make  it  difficult  for  mc.  I 
have  been  wicked  to  your  wife.  And  as  for  that 
poor   Annunciata !" 

"Where  shall  you  go.''"  he  repeated.     He  could 


2o8  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

do  no  less  than  be  firm.  Her  femininity  was  a 
challenge  to  his  chivalry. 

"To  London.  Perhaps  to  Paris.  There  are 
many  English  families  in  Paris.  I  can  place  my- 
self."    Her  tone  was  sweetly  and  resignedly  cheerful. 

"Not  without  testimonials,  you  can't,"  he  said. 
"  I  will  give  you  a  testimonial.  I  will  write  you 
the  best  character  you  can  possibly  want,  and  then 
perhaps  you  will  be  all  right." 

She  thanked  him  with  a  modest,  grateful  glance, 
as  though  he  had  offered  something  beyond  her 
hopes  or  deserts.  It  was  wonderful  to  him  how  she 
had  been  changed  by  calamity.  This  was  not  the 
same  woman  that  he  had  held  in  his  arms  and 
fondled  and  kissed,  and  who  had  repaid  his  caresses 
with  her  own.  This  was  a  serious,  good  little  woman. 
Her  nature  evidently  had  two  sides.  He  felt  a 
brute.  Still,  women  are  amazing.  There  was  no 
other  word. 

She  gave  him  the  address  of  a  home  for  French 
governesses  In  Kensington,  and  he  wrote  it  down. 
Then   she   sighed. 

"You  will  do  what  I  say.^*"  she  breathed. 

"What?" 

"Ask  your  wife  to  forgive  you,  and  me.  And  to 
help  you  with  poor  Annunciata." 

"I  can't  imagine  how  Annunciata  suspected ?" 

he  burst  out,  reflective.     "What  did  she V* 


RENEE  209 


((- 


'Never  mind  that.     You  will  do  what  I  say?" 

She  was  solemnly  staring  up  at  him,  her  lips 
parted. 

"I'll  try  It,"  he  said,  permitting  his  voice  to  show 
a  faint  hope.  "I'll  try  It.  I  had  a  note  from  my 
wife  this  morning  to  say  that  she  would  come  home 
to-morrow  by  the  half-past  twelve  train.  I'll  meet 
her  at  Knype,  before  Annunciata  sees  her." 

"But  if  Annunciata  writes  to  her?" 

"What  does  that  matter?"  he  said  with  an  accent 
of  superior  wisdom.  "My  wife  must  know,  any- 
how. The  only  important  thing  is  that  I  should 
see  her  before  any  one  else  does." 

She  nodded  meekly.  "How  I  pity  you,  my 
friend!" 

"Oh!"  he  said  curtly:  "What  is  done  is  done. 
We  must  make  the  best  of  it.  All  I  can  say  is,  I'm 
awfully  sorry  I've  got  you  into  this  hole." 

She  shook  her  head.  "It  Is  myself  I  blame.  For 
me  there  Is  no  excuse."  And  she  whispered:  "I 
am  not  sorry  for  myself.  For  myself  I  am  glad.  I 
do  not  regret  for  myself.  It  is  for  you  and  your 
wife  and  poor  Annunciata  that  I  regret."  She 
gazed  up  at  him  tragically.  He  was  touched,  and 
at  the  same  time  he  suddenly  felt  very  self-conscious. 

"Well "    he   stammered,   not   knowing  what 

to  say. 

She  broke  In,  evidently  preoccupied  by  the  dangers 


210  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

that  beset  him:  "But  to-night?  Your  wife  will 
not  be  in  the  house.  And  you  will  be  obliged  to 
meet  Annunciata!     How  shall  you ?" 

"I  sha'n't  do  any  such  thing,"  he  replied.  "I've 
thought  of  all  that.  I  shall  have  business  in  Liver- 
pool this  afternoon,  and  I  sha'n't  return  till  to- 
morrow evening." 

"What  time  shall  you  go  to  Liverpool.^"  she 
demanded. 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  the  local  time-table  which 
is  carried  by  every  business  man  in  the  Five  Towns. 
"Twelve  thirty  eight  atKnype"  he  said,  and  nodded. 
"By  the  way,  you  know  there's  an  express  to  Lon- 
don at  twelve  eleven.?     You  might  catch  it." 

"Yes,"  she  agreed  softly. 

She  was  acquiescence  itself. 

"Take  my  bag  a  little  second,  will  you?"  she 
asked  him.  He  took  the  bag,  and  also  the  umbrella, 
which  she  held  out  to  him,  letting  her  skirts  fall. 
He  wondered  what  she  was  about  to  do.  She 
glanced  downward  with  a  charming  coquettish 
instinct,  to  be  sure  that  her  skirt  had  escaped  the 
puddle,  and  then  she  raised  her  small  gloved  hands 
and  arranged  his  necktie.  "  T^es  ficele  comme  quat* 
sous^"  she  murmured.  He  did  not  comprehend  the 
phrase.  Then  she  picked  a  bit  of  fluff  off  his  breast. 
He  said  to  himself  that  such  was  the  nature  of 
women,  and  that  these  attentions  must  be  borne  sto- 


RENEE  211 

ically.  His  spirits  were  mounting  now.  Hope  shone 
like  a  star  before  him.  He  saw  the  time  when  he 
could  look  Annunciata  in  the  face.  Lastly  Renee 
lowered  her  veil. 

At  the  same  moment  there  was  a  wild  stertorous 
snorting  and  tramp  of  hoofs,  and  round  the  bend  of 
the  canal  a  horse  suddenly  entered  the  tunnel  of  the 
bridge,  straining  at  a  taut  rope.  The  rope  wrenched 
his  forequarters  in  the  direction  of  the  water,  so  that 
he  walked  always  a  little  askew.  Fearns  dragged 
his  mistress  to  the  wall,  and  the  animal  struggled 
on,  his  legs  raking  forward  like  the  masts  of  a  ship. 
Each  time  he  lifted  a  hoof  out  of  the  viscid  mud 
there  was  a  sound  like  a  smothered  Titanic  kiss. 

"Oh!  The  brute!"  Renee  exclaimed.  "I  was 
frightened." 

And  Fearns  smiled  with  indulgence.  Presently 
the  long  narrow  boat  appeared.  A  man  was  steer- 
ing, and  the  water  rippled  oflF  the  rudder,  which  he 
held  firmly  to  port.  Smoke  ascended  from  the 
cabin.  A  woman  was  nursing  a  baby  at  the  cabin 
door.  The  inhabitants  of  the  boat  did  not  give  a 
second  glance  at  Fearns  and  Renee.  They  spent 
their  lives  in  surprising  couples  under  bridges.  The 
cortege  passed  from  view. 

Then  a  car  rumbled  overhead,  shaking  the  earth. 

"What  time  is  it?"  Renee  asked. 

"Twenty  five  past  eleven.     That  is  the  car  going 


212  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

to  Sneyd  Vale.  The  other  will  be  along  in  five 
minutes.  If  you  take  it  and  then  get  a  cab,  you 
will  just  have  time." 

"I  will  do  that,"  she  said. 

"Have  you  enough  money?"  he  questioned  hen 

She    nodded. 

"  Let  me  give  you  some." 

She  shook  her  head.  And  he  saw  two  tears  in 
her  eyes.  He  had  wounded  her.  "No,  no,"  she 
muttered,  with  a  kind  of  horror.  He  regretted  that 
he  had  mentioned  money.  And  yet  he  could  not 
have  let  her  go  without  mentioning  it. 

^^  Adieu! ^^  she  said,  resuming  her  bag  and  um- 
brella. 

"Good-bye,"  he  responded,  and  in  giving  her  the 
bag,  he  tried  to  squeeze  her  hand;  it  was  the  least 
he  could  do.  However,  her  hand  was  occupied  with 
the  umbrella,  and  he  only  succeeded  in  squeezing 
her  thumb.     He  felt  foolish. 

"You  go  first,"  she  entreated  him.  "We  cannot 
leave  together." 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  will  stay  till  you  are  safely  off." 

"I  wish  to  be  the  last  in  this  place,"  she  begged. 

"Don't  be  silly,"  he  spoke  with  kind  firmness. 
"You'll  miss   your  car." 

She  yielded  submissively,  and  went  from  under 
the  bridge.  Then  she  stopped,  and  hesitated,  and 
came  back  to  him.     And  as  she  did  so,  she  lifted  her 


RENEE  213 

veil  with  one  hand.  She  raised  her  sad,  set  face  to 
his  with  a  mute  appeal.  He  blushed,  bent  down 
and  kissed  her  cheek,  and  she  kissed  his  cheek. 

"Good-bye,  little  girl,"  he  said,  and  his  voice 
broke.  It  was  the  facile  emotion  of  the  Lovelace 
that  had  overtaken  him  unawares. 

She  said  nothing;  but  put  her  lips  together, 
lowered  her  veil,  seized  her  skirt  and  shook  it,  and 
hastened  from  his  sight.  Immediately  afterward 
the  bridge  vibrated  to  the  passage  of  the  Han- 
bridge  car. 

The  words  that  he  uttered  as  the  echoes  of  the 
car  died  away,  had  they  been  heard,  would  perhaps 
have  deprived  him  of  the  last  shred  of  human  sym- 
pathy. But  they  were  not  to  be  construed  in  a  too 
literal  sense.  They  were  in  part  the  mere  bravado 
of  one  who,  having  been  well  frightened,  is  getting 
over  his  alarm  and  scorning  the  man  he  was  a  mo- 
ment before.  And  in  any  case  they  expressed  only 
a  small  fraction  of  his  feelings.  He  exclaimed: 
"Good    riddance!" 

He  tapped  nervously  with  his  stick  against  the 
brick  wall,  frowning  at  it.  She  was  a  mysterious 
creature.  After  all  he  wondered  if  she  had  not  been 
performing  a  comedy  with  masterly  skill.  His 
opinion  of  women  was  now  very  high,  now  very  low. 
She  was  gone,  the  chapter  closed,  the  leaf  turned. 

She    was    gone.     Never   would  he  see  her  again. 


214  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

And  the  final  interview  had  occurred  more  smoothly 
than  he  could  have  dared  to  hope.  He  had  now  to 
face  the  situation  with  his  wife  and  Annunciata. 
It  dismayed  him  horribly.  But,  thanks  to  Renee, 
he  had  emerged  somewhat  from  the  sick  despair 
of  half  an  hour  ago. 

Inextricably  mixed  up  with  the  tumult  of  his 
thoughts  concerning  that  situation  was  a  thread  of 
regret  for  certain  qualities  in  Renee.  He  could  not 
dismiss  from  his  mind  the  haunting  conviction  that 
she  was  the  finest  mistress  he  had  ever  had. 

He  hastened  back  to  the  office,  this  time  walking 
boldly  up  Spode  Street.  There  could  be  no  further 
danger  now,  no  matter  who  saw  him.  The  notion 
of  departing  instantly  to  Liverpool  appealed  to  him 
very  strongly.  He  felt  the  need  of  movement,  the 
need  to  get  away  out  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  Five 
Towns,  which  seemed  to  choke  him.  At  Liverpool 
he  would  be  capable  of  continuous  thought,  and 
could  carefully  consider  how  he  should  approach 
his  wife.  For  the  moment  he  had  the  idea  of 
going  to  Birmingham,  instead  of  to  Liverpool,  and 
meeting  his  wife  at  once.  But  when  he  remembered 
the  sort  of  house  in  which  his  wife's  sister  lived,  and 
the  fact  that  it  would  be  completely  upset  by  sickness, 
he  saw  that  a  private  and  lengthy  interview  in  the 
house  would  be  impossible.     And  certainly  he  could 


RENEE  215 

not  take  his  wife  for  a  walk  and  explain  to  her  his 
sin  and  his  remorse  in  the  streets.  Moreover  he 
had  the  coward's  preference  for  to-morrow.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  Annunciata  might  write  to  her 
mother  and  tell  her.  .  .  .  No!  Impossible! 
The  child  would  never  do  that.  She  would  never 
dare  even  to  hint  on  paper.  .  .  .  There  would 
be  something  about  such  an  action  that  would 
appall  a  modest  girl.  Still,  he  was  dimly  aware 
that  Annunciata  had  in  her  character  a  streak  of  the 
fanatic,  of  the  martyr.  He  had  glimpsed  that  streak 
more  than  once.  After  all,  she  might  write  to  her 
mother:  it  was  just  conceivable.  Then  the  brilliant  ^ 
scheme  of  writing  to  I.Irs.  Fearns  himself  came  into 
his  mind,  and  he  was  enchanted  with  it.  He  would 
go  to  Liverpool  and  he  would  write  to  her  in  his 
best  style  —  and  he  could  write  a  letter  to  a  woman, 
he  said,  if  any  man  could!  —  and  smooth  the  path- 
way for  the  interview. 

In  his  office,  a  client  who  had  an  appointment, 
and  whom  he  had  entirely  forgotten,  was  waiting 
to  see  him.  He  apologized  to  the  client,  gave  him 
a  cigar,  and  told  him  he  could  spare  him  exactly 
five  minutes.  He  said  that  during  the  last  day  or 
two  he  had  not  been  able  to  call  his  soul  his  own. 
Unexpected  interruptions  had  followed  one  another 
in  a  series,  and  now  he  was  absolutely  compelled  to 
rush  off  to  Liverpool  at  a  moment's  notice.     ("A 


2i6  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

quarter  of  an  hour  ago  I  was  kissing  her,"  his  thoughts 
persistently  ran,  "A  quarter  of  an  hour  ago  I  was 
kissing  her."  And  in  memory  the  scene  under  the 
bridge  seemed  fantastic.)  He  talked  seriously 
with  the  client  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  rang 
for  Ridware,  to  whom  he  specially  commended  the 
client's  affairs.  And  to  show  the  client  that  he 
regarded  him  as  no  ordinary  client,  he  spoke  briefly 
to  Ridware  in  his  presence  of  other  business,  and 
informed  Ridware  that  he  was  off  to  Liverpool. 

"I'm  coming  out,"  he  said,  as  the  client  rose,  and 
they  left  his  room  together,  each  smoking.  Fearns 
saw  the  telephone. 

"Half  a  second,"  he  demanded  of  the  client,  the 
cigar  between  his  teeth.  "I'll  just  telephone  to  my 
daughter.     The  wife's  away." 

And  he  rang,  and  gave  the  number  to  the 
exchange. 

When  Annunciata  answered  his  call,  he  put  his 
cigar  on  the  desk,  but  so  clumsily  that  it  fell  to 
the  ground.  Her  "Yes,  father,"  frightened  him. 
He  knew  he  was  afraid  of  her.  And  as  a  crim- 
inal endeavours  to  anticipate  his  fate  from  the 
judge's  preliminary  tones,  so  he  endeavoured  to  read 
the  future  in  Annunciata's  voice.  But  he  could 
not  succeed  in  the  divination.  He  delivered  his  mes- 
sage in  the  sharp,  curt  tone  of  a  busy  and  pre- 
occupied man. 


RENEE  217 

"There!  That's  done!"  he  exclaimed,  picking  up 
the  cigar  and  dusting  it. 

"Soon  done!"  the  client  observed. 

"Well,  good  morning.  I  must  hurry,"  he  said 
outside.  "What  time  do  you  make  it,  exactly? 
I  know  you've  always  got  Greenwich." 

They  compared  watches,  shook  hands,  and  parted. 
Fearns  had  the  good  fortune  to  catch  a  Knype  car 
at  the  end  of  the  street. 

Bob  Cyples  was  on  the  rear  platform  of  the  car, 
smoking.  He  and  Fearns  were  somewhat  less  than 
cronies  and  somewhat  more  than  business  friends; 
though  neither  ever  enjoyed  the  other's  hospitality, 
except  in  bars,  restaurants,  and  clubs,  a  sort  of 
fellowship,  which  had  never  been  put  to  any  test, 
existed  between  them.  They  were  familiar  rather 
than  intimate,  but  there  was  liking  and  a  certain 
amount  of  respect  at  the  bottom  of  their  relation- 
ship. Fearns  did  not  wish  to  talk  to  anybody 
just  then.  However,  as  he  hesitated  to  throw  away 
his  newly  lit  cigar  immediately,  he  was  obliged  to 
accept  the  situation  and  remain  on  the  platform. 
Such  sacrifices  must  be  made  at  once  if  they  are  to 
be  made  at  all, 

Cyples  was  very  cordial,  as  usual,  and  the 
exchanges  were  of  the  lightest  nature  until  the 
conductor  went  inside  the  car  to  collect  fares.  Then 
Cyples  altered  his  tone. 


2i8  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 


(C 


You're  going  on  with  that  matter,  I  suppose?" 
he    said    cautiously. 

"What    matter?" 

"R.  V.  R.,"  said  Cyples. 

"R.  V.  R.?"     Fearns  repeated,  at  a  loss. 

"Ridware."  Cyples  breathed  the  word  very 
low.  If  he  had  called  it  out  aloud  no  one  but  Fearns 
could  possibly  have  heard  it  above  the  rattle  of  the 
car,  but  in  business  Cyples's  name  was  prudence. 

"Oh!  Ridware!"  Fearns  exlaimed.  "Why?  You 
aren't  against  us,  are  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Cyples.  "I  told  R.  Didn't  he  tell 
you?  The  lady  came  to  us  immediately  after  the 
rupture."  And  Cyples  seemed  to  convey  that  not 
every  lady  would  have  been  so  wise  as  not  to  wait 
for  the  actual  commencement  of  proceedings  before 
consulting  her  lawyers. 

"The  devil  she  did!"  responded  Fearns.  "No, 
Ridware  didn't  tell  me.  Fact  is,  I  haven't  had  a 
chance  to  speak  to  him  about  it  to-day.  Why  do 
you  ask  if  we're  going  on.  Of  course  we're  going 
on.     You  simply  won't  have  a  look  in,  my  boy." 

Cyples  smiled  in  a  manner  to  indicate  that  on 
that  point  he  had  his  own  opinion.  Between  friends 
who  were  professionally  enemies,  unofficial  con- 
versation as  to  the  casus  belli  could  not  with  due 
regard  to  etiquette  be  carried  much  further.  More- 
over, the  conductor  returned  to  the  platform. 


RENEE  219 

"I  only  mentioned  It  because  I've  just  heard  that 
G.  is  seriously  ill,"  said  Cyples. 

"G.?" 

"Yes,  you  know." 

Fearns  nodded  "Ah!     What's  up  with  him?" 

"Don't  know." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Where  are  you  off  to?"  Cyples  resumed  in  a 
normal   tone. 

"Liverpool." 

"Long?" 

"No.  Come  back  to-night  or  to-morrow  morning." 

Shortly  afterward  Cyples  dropped  off  the  car 
opposite  to  Boone's  manufactory.  Fearns  was 
glad  to  be  alone.  It  was  astonishing  how  the  mere 
mention  of  a  divorce  case  distressed  him.  But  he 
assured  himself  that  he  had  shown  no  sign  of  per- 
turbation to  Cyples. 

Just  as  there  is  a  right  and  a  wrong  pavement  of 
Piccadilly,  so  at  large  railway  stations  there  is  always 
one  platform  which  Is  modish  beyond  the  others, 
and  this  platform  Is  usually  the  main  up-platform. 
Such  was  the  case  at  Knype.  The  main  down- 
platform,  though  It  pointed  to  Manchester,  Liver- 
pool and  Scotland,  and  though  the  greatest  expresses 
halted  their  magnificence  before  it,  could  never  —  no, 
not   on    the    morning   of   the   Grand  National!  — 


220  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

compete  in  social  distinction  with  its  rival.  That 
day  happened  to  be  Thursday,  the  half-holiday  of 
the  shop  keepers,  and  the  down-platform  was 
crowded  with  a  miscellaneous  assortment  of  trippers 
—  good,  modest  people,  capable  of  asking  for  an 
excursion  ticket  without  shame,  and  of  sitting 
five-a-side  and  laying  open  their  souls  to  fellow- 
mortals  without  an  introduction.  The  down- 
platform  was  therefore  even  less  fashionable  than 
usual.  Charles  Fearns  found  himself  delayed  at 
every  corner.  There  were  a  score  of  persons  in  front 
of  him  at  the  booking  office;  the  approaches  to  the 
subway  were  encumbered,  and  by  the  time  he 
arrived  on  the  platform  the  train  was  overdue.  He 
had  the  scorn  for  Thursday  people  which  Invariably 
animates  the  breasts  of  those  who  take  holiday  on 
Saturday,  for  it  Is  accepted  that  to  be  Idle  on  Sat- 
urday is  more  correct  than  to  be  Idle  on  Thursday. 
He  was  out  of  breath,  and  hot  and  very  thirsty, 
and  his  thirst  reminded  him  that  he  had  omitted 
lunch  from  his  programme  of  arrangements.  He 
cared,  however,  nothing  for  lunch,  but  his  parched 
throat  was  rather  peremptory  In  Its  demand,  and 
It  depressed  and  angered  him  to  think  that  he  could 
not  drink  earHer  than  Crewe.  He  discovered  from 
a  porter  that  an  economical  railway  company  had, 
by  merely  taking  thought  and  by  no  other  process, 
transformed    the    twelve    thirty-eight   ordinary    to 


RENEE  221 

Crewe  and  Liverpool  into  an  excursion  train,  and 
that  first-class  passengers  would  accordingly  suffer. 
Taller  than  most  of  the  crowd,  and  not  recognizing 
a  single  individual  in  it,  he  regarded  the  simple  faces 
with  resentful  disdain,  refusing  to  yield  to  excited 
plebeian  elbows  and  shoulders,  and  swallowing  his 
thirst  as  best  he  could. 

"Stand  back,  please!  Crewe  and  Liverpool  train," 
cried  several  porters. 

The  train  slowly  entered  the  reverberating  station, 
and  carriage  doors  opened  like  fins  along  the  length 
of  its  smooth  flank.  By  chance  a  first-class  com- 
partment came  to  a  stop  precisely  in  front  of  Fearns. 
In  a  mechanical  manner  he  read  on  a  board  at  the 
top  of  the  coach  —  "Birmingham  and  Liverpool. 
Through  carriage."  His  fingers  were  on  the  handle 
of  the  door  when  he  perceived  a  woman  inside.  She 
stooped  over  a  bag,  and  her  face  was  hidden  from 
him.  His  heart  gave  a  jump.  It  was  his  wife  that 
he  had  seen.  And  already,  having  apparently 
fastened  the  bag,  she  was  turning  to  alight. 
Instinctively,  without  reflection,  he  pushed  violently 
backward  into  the  crowd  and  forced  a  passage  to 
the  open  space  between  the  edge  of  the  crowd  and 
the  wall  of  a  waiting-room.  What  should  he  do.^* 
With  cruel  suddenness  he  was  called  upon  to  decide 
on  a  course  of  action  and  he  dared  not  decide. 

His  wife  descended,  and  for  the  moment  was  lost 


222  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

to  view.  Annunciata,  then,  must  have  telegraphed 
to  her  mother.  What  had  Annunciata  telegraphed? 
And  the  monstrous  question  of  what  Annunciata 
knew,  what  Annunciata  had  seen,  presented  itself 
to  him  with  desolating  effect.  He  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  his  wife's  face,  and  he  thought  it  displayed 
extreme  pain  and  anxiety.  SurelyAnnunciatahadnot 
telegraphed  the  naked  fact!  No!  Even  the  clumsy 
inexperience  of  a  girl  whose  feelings  had  been  utterly 
outraged  would  not  have  committed  the  folly  of 
telegraphing  the  naked  fact!  The  idea  could  not  be 
conceived.  There  was,  then,  yet  time.  By  the 
merest  chance  he  was  yet  in  a  position,  by  the 
exercise  of  all  his  vaunted  tact  and  persuasive  skill, 
to  save  the  situation.  He  must  go  up  to  his  wife 
instantly  and  begin  upon  the  dreadful  business. 
He  must  grasp  the  nettle  without  pusillanimity  and 
without  shrinking.  Perhaps  Annunciata  had  not 
telegraphed.  Perhaps  the  recovery  of  Alma's 
sister  had  progressed  so  rapidly  that  his  wife  had 
resolved  to  come  home  a  day  earlier.  There  was 
hope.  Already  the  multitude  on  the  platform  was 
thinning.  And,  behind  the  Crew  train  the  loop- 
line  train,  which  would  take  his  wife  to  Bleakridge, 
had  crept  up.  He  could  see  her  now  moving 
toward*  it.  He  must  not  hesitate.  There  was  not 
a  second   to   lose. 

He  counted  himself  a  man,  but  as  the  alternative 


RENEE  223 

courses  dictated  by  courageous  prudence  and  by 
imbecile  cowardice  offered  themselves  to  him,  the 
manhood  left  him.  It  was  not  for  nothing  that  for 
twenty  years  he  had  devoted  his  life  to  carnal 
indulgence.  The  fibre  of  his  character  had  been 
eaten  away,  and  now  for  the  first  time  he  realized 
with  horror  that  this  was  so.  He  did  not  doubt 
that  his  fate  and  the  fate  of  his  family  depended  on 
his  action  during  the  next  minute.  He  could  not 
think  of  a  single  argument  in  favour  of  delaying 
the  encounter  with  his  wife.  Nevertheless  he  could 
not  approach  her.  His  legs  would  not  carry  him 
in  her  direction.  He  had  no  longer  to  deal  with 
logic,  but  with  instinct.  And  the  instinct  which 
had  forced  him  away  from  the  carriage  door  for- 
bade him  to  follow  Alma  to  the  loop-line  train.  He 
was  powerless.  He  was  conscious  of  an  abject  fear 
of  his  wife.  He  knew  that  he  could  not  meet  her 
eyes. 

And  so  he  slipped  again  like  a  thief  toward  the 
Liverpool  train.  "It  will  be  better  to  write,"  he 
murmured  in  his  heart,  and  knew  well  the  while 
that  it  would  not  be  better  to  write.  "Annunciata 
has  not  compromised  me,  and  she  will  not  com- 
promise me,"  he  said,  and  sought  to  find  an  illusory 
solace  in  the  obvious  lie.  Then  he  felt  a  touch  on 
his  shoulder.  He  ignored  it,  and  the  touch  was 
repeated.     He  turned.     Renee  was  at  his  side. 


224  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

He  was  so  taken  aback  that  he  could  not  utter 
a   sound. 

"  I  must  speak  to  you,"  she  said,  and  she  seemed  to 
lean  her  body  toward  him.  Her  veil  was  raised. 
Her  face,  with  its  melting  eyes,  invited  and  im- 
plored him  to  accept  her. 

"What?"  he  muttered  in  a  strange  voice. 

"I  must  speak  to  you." 

He  could  have  struck  her  and  killed  her  without 
a  qualm. 

"But  you  can't,"  he  said.  "My  wife's  on  the 
platform.     She'll  see  us." 

And  he  gazed  fearfully  around,  lest  any  one  should 
have  overheard  their  colloquy. 

"I  must  speak  to  you,"  she  reiterated.  "Come 
to  the  waiting  room.  Come."  She  appeared  to 
ignore  the  news  of  his  wife's  presence,  or  not  to 
have  heard  it. 

He  was  trapped  and  helpless.  At  once  it  seemed 
to  him  that  if  she  had  not  sprung  herself  upon  him, 
he  would  after  all  have  had  the  courage  to  go  to  his 
wife.  And  now  Renee  was  audacious  enough  to 
seize  his  coat.  She  was  bent  on  his  ruin:  he  could 
see  that,  and  he  anathematized  her  with  the  savage 
sincerity  of  desperation.  But  he  followed  her;  he 
might  not  do  otherwise.  She  led  him,  blindly  and 
swiftly,  to  the  ladies'  first  class  waiting  room. 
There  was  no  other  person  in  the  waiting  room,  a 


RENEE  225 

large,  lofty,  and  obscure  apartment,  with  an  empty 
fireplace,  cushioned  benches  running  round  the  walls 
and  a  massive  table  in  the  centre;  in  the  table  lay 
Renee's  bag  and  umbrella.  He  placed  himself 
against  the  wall  between  the  window  and  the  door. 
The  lower  panes  of  the  window  were  of  ground  glass, 
but  he  could  look  over  them  and  survey  the  plat- 
form. Dividing  his  frightened  glances  between  the 
platform  and  the  women  he  gasped: 

**What  do  you  want?" 

"I  missed  the  train,"  she  stammered,  boldly 
clutching  at  the  lapels  of  his  coat.  And  then, 
abandoning  herself  to  emotion,  she  cried  aloud. 
"No,  no!  I  did  not  miss  it,  I  could  not  leave  you, 
cheri!  Forgive  me!  I  could  not  leave  you.  I 
have  waited  for  you."  And  she  sobbed  as  freely  as 
if  they  had  been  locked  up  in  some  secret  chamber, 
secure  from  any  possible  interruption. 

He  was  furious  with  anger  at  her  deceit,  at  the 
calculated  comedy  she  had  played  under  the  canal 
bridge.  He  was  sure  it  was  comedy  that  she  had 
played.  And  this  too,  though  real  tears  rolled 
from  her  eyes  —  this  too  was  a  comedy.  She  did  not 
mean  to  lose  him.  She  had  got  him,  and  no  scruples 
would  prevent  her  from  keeping  him,  "Ah!"  he 
thought  wildly,  "Will  you.'*  Will  you.^  Damn 
you!  We  will  see  if  I  am  the  man  to  be  caught 
like   this!     You   hoodwinked   me   under  the   canal 


226  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

bridge,  but  not  twice,  my  girl!"  Her  charm,  her 
intention,  were  as  voluptuous  as  ever,  but  she  had 
ceased  to  enchant  him.     They  stared  at  each  other. 

''Oh!  Mon  Charles!''  she  murmured.  "Have 
pity  on  me!" 

"You  must  be  mad!"  he  replied,  repulsing  her, 
"To  go  on  in  this  way,  here!" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  am  mad.  I  thought  I  could 
leave  you,  but  I  cannot." 

He  looked  at  the  platform.  It  was  nearly  empty. 
The  train  had  gradually  absorbed  the  excursionists, 
and  there  was  a  banging  of  doors,  a  waving  of  a 
green  flag,  and  two  whistles.  He  could  see  his 
wife  approaching  the  waiting  room. 

"My  wife's  coming  in  here,"  he  cried,  at  his  wits' 
end.     "Let  me  go!" 

''Charles?'' 

"Good  God!"  he  muttered,  and  then  ferociously: 
"If  you  don't  let  me  go,  you  devil " 

The  Liverpool  train  passed  out  of  view,  and  imme- 
diately the  loop-line  train  came  up  and  took  its  place, 
waiting  the  appointed  minute  of  departure.  He 
saw  his  wife  get  into  a  first-class  compartment,  and 
shut  the  door,  and  then  lean  from  the  window,  idly 
scanning  the  platform.  And  as  he  drew  his  head 
into  the  shelter  of  the  wall,  the  sense  of  his  gigantic 
folly,  the  sense  of  all  that  he  had  risked  and  all  that 
he   was   forfeiting,   swept   through   him   and   over- 


RENEE  227 

whelmed  him.  If  only  he  could  have  rushed  to  the 
calm  and  heavenly  creature  outside  and  cast  him- 
self at  her  feet,  and  humbled  himself,  and  entreated 
her  to  listen  to  none  but  him — if  only  he  could  have 
done  that!  But  Renee  had  him.  Renee  and  he 
were  one  in  that  moment!  And  the  seconds  ticked 
away  on  the  clock  above  the  vast  fireplace,  and 
then  there  was  another  whistle,  and  the  loop-line 
train  slid  from  the  station,  and,  except  for  port- 
ers and  the  bookstall  clerk,  the  platform  was 
quite  empty.  Alma  had  irretrievably  gone  to 
Annunciata. 

Renee  poured  out  broken  words. 

"Look  here,  my  girl,"  he  addressed  her  bitterly, 
forcing  her  hands  anew  off  his  coat.  "You  can't 
come  these  games  over  me.  So  don't  think  it.  I 
don't  suppose  I'm  the  first  that  you've  hooked,  not 
by  a  long  sight.  You've  got  to  go  and  you  may  as 
well  understand  it.  Do  you  hear.^  You've  got 
to  go.  Do  your  worst.  If  it's  blackmail,  do  your 
worst.  You  must  take  me  for  a  confounded  fool. 
But  I'm  not,  I'm  not!  I  may  be  ruined,  but  I'm 
not  an  absolute  mug.     Do  you  hear.?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  stifling  her  sobs. 

"That's  good.  Did  you  get  your  ticket  for 
London.?" 

"No,  I  had  no  money." 
'Then  why  in  God's  name  did  you  tell  me   you 


((' 


228  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

had  money?"  he  demanded  with  uncontrolled 
passion.  She  shrank  away.  "I  was  too  proud," 
she  said. 

"That  be  damned!  That  be  damned!"  he 
shouted.  He  did  not  care  who  heard  him.  He 
made  one  step  to  the  table,  pounced  on  her  bag, 
opened  it,  and  put  a  lot  of  gold  and  silver  into  it,  all 
the  money  he  had,  save  one  sovereign  which  he 
kept  in  his   hand. 

"Here!  Take  it!"  he  ordered  her.  And  she 
submissively  took  the  bag.  "And  this  too!"  And 
she  took  the  umbrella.     "Now  come  along  with  me ! " 

He  hurried  her  out  of  the  waiting  room,  and 
through  the  subway  to  the  booking  hall  on  the 
up-platform. 

"Second  single  to  Euston,"  he  said  laconically 
to  the  booking  clerk,  depositing  the  sovereign. 
"There's  a  train  to  Stafford  atone  three,  isn't  there.?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  clerk. 

He  handed  the  ticket  to  Renee,  and  made  her  sit 
down  in  the  booking  hall,  while  he  planted  himself 
under  the  archway  leading  to  the  platform.  It  was 
already  one  o'clock. 

"You  change  at  Stafford"  he  said,  as  he  put  her 
into  the  train.  "You  won't  have  long  to  wait. 
The  Euston  train  comes  In  from  Crewe.  I'll  send 
you    the   testimonial." 

He  did  not  say  good-bye,  and  since  leaving  the 


RENEE  229 

waiting  room  she  had  been  silent.  The  train 
departed. 

He  almost  ran  into  the  refreshment  room. 

"Bottle  of  Bass,  miss."  He  drank  the  Bass  in 
three  gulps,  and  smacked  his  lips. 

"Curse  her!"  he  thought.  "Curse  her!  But 
I  took  the  blasted  Frenchiness  out  of  her.  A  nice 
thing!"  And  deep  in  his  paternal  mind  was  an 
indignant  protest  that  French  governesses,  with 
their  Catholic  ways,  could  thus  worm  themselves 
into  decent  families  and  play  hell  with  domestic 
peace.  He  knew  he  had  been  disgracefully  brutal. 
He  did  not  attempt  to  disguise  from  himself  that  he 
had  behaved  to  her  infamously,  even  granting  to 
the  full  her  unscrupulous  duplicity.  But  he  did  not 
care.  He  said  he  would  do  the  same  again  under 
the  same   circumstances.     Yes,    a  hundred   times! 

He  returned  to  his  office  to  obtain  some  more 
money. 

The  next  morning  Charles  Fearns,  back  again  in 
the  Five  Towns,  jumped  off  the  car  at  Lawton 
Street,  Bleakridge,  and  turned  with  hurried  steps  to 
resume  possession  of  his  house  and  his  family.  Su- 
perficially he  had  the  same  air  of  the  conquering, 
jaunty,  powerful  male  that  always  distinguished 
him.  It  seemed  as  if  nothing  could  destroy  the 
elasticity  of  that  stride,  nor  dull  the  fire  of  that  eye. 


230  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

nor  blanch  that  cheek,  nor  derange  the  hat's  cavalier 
poise.  Moreover,  he  had  desperate  reason  to  wear 
the  mask  of  victory  if  by  so  doing  he  could  en- 
hearten  himself  to  win.  But  he  was  nevertheless 
really  in  a  state  approaching  collapse,  nearer  even 
than  he  feared  to  the  end  of  his  forces.  He  had 
spent  a  pitiable  evening  and  night  at  Liverpool.  No 
sooner  had  he  arrived  there  than  he  began,  with 
reason,  to  ask  why  he  had  gone  thither.  What 
purpose  was  he  serving.^  What  conceivable  excuse 
had  the  journey.'*  For  four  hours  he  divided  his 
time  between  the  streets  and  the  smoking  room  of 
the  Adelphi  Hotel.  Twice  he  essayed  a  letter  to 
his  wife,  and  found  the  task  beyond  him.  But  he 
telegraphed  to  say  that  he  would  not  return  that 
night.  At  length,  just  before  the  post  left,  he  did 
scribble  a  note  to  her;  it  was  a  ridiculously  inade- 
quate example  of  his  skill,  vague  and  perhaps 
scarcely  comprehensible:  it  did  nothing  but  request 
her  to  suspend  her  judgment;  it  incriminated  him, 
and  he  felt  that  it  Incriminated  him.  But  he  sent 
it.  Having  sent  it,  he  conceived  the  scheme  of 
returning  to  Bursley  that  night  and  preceeding  the 
letter.  However,  this  project  demanded  more 
resolution  and  courage  than  he  could  furnish  for  it. 
He  drank  a  couple  of  whiskies  and  retired  to  bed 
about  ten  o'clock.  During  most  of  the  night  he 
remained  awake,  reviling  himself  In  the  most  abject 


RENEE  231 

and  violent  manner,  and  ceaselessly  tormented  by 
the  gnawing  question :  What  did  Annunciata  know, 
what  had  she  seen?  He  was  wide  awake  at  six  o'clock. 
But  at  eight,  to  his  extreme  surprise,  he  woke  up 
out  of  a  heavy  sleep.  He  was  calmer  then,  if  not 
less  stricken;  his  faculties  were  a  little  restored. 
He  rang  for  Bradshaw  and  tea;  sent  a  messenger  to 
buy  a  clean  collar,  he  had  a  cold  bath,  making  an  in- 
ordinate splash;  he  visited  the  barber,  and  then  he 
drove  to  Lime  Street  and  took  the  first  available 
train  home.  He  had  at  last  come  to  a  decision. 
He  would  see  Alma  face  to  face  at  the  earliest 
possible  instant,  and  he  would  accept  the  risk  of 
having  to  see  Annunciata.  Instead  of  going  on  to 
Knype,  and,  having  changed  there  for  Hanbridge, 
calling  at  the  ofhce  to  attend  to  pressing  business,  he 
left  the  train  at  Shawport  and  caught  a  car  up  to 
Bleakridge;  he  thus  saved  over  an  hour.  He  was 
mad  to  go  through  the  interview  with  his  wife,  so 
eager,  and  withal  so  afraid  and  tremulous  —  with 
his  assertive  stride  —  that  he  would  not,  or  dared  not, 
cogitate  upon  the  interview  in  advance.  He  for- 
mulated no  plan  of  campaign.  He  did  not  prepare 
for  possible  dangers.  He  hastened  on,  as  one  who 
can  neither  fence  nor  shoot  hastens  to  a  duel,  ir- 
rationally and  spasmodically  hoping  for  the  best. 

As  he  approached  his  garden  gate,  he  saw  Martin 
coming  up  Lawton  Street  in  the  opposite  direction. 


232  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

Martin  was  wearing  his  green  apron  and  wheeling 
a  large  flat  empty  barrow.  And  Martin's  master 
flinched,  at  the  moment  scarcely  appreciating  why 
he  flinched.  The  principal  use  of  that  large  flat 
barrow  was  to  transport  heavy  baggage  to  Bleak- 
ridge  Station  when  the  family,  or  sections  of  the 
family  went  away  for  a  holiday.  And  Lawton 
Street  led  to  Bleakridge  Station,  Surely  his  wife 
had  not  gone  already?  No!  She  could  not  have 
acted  with  such  precipitation!  No,  she  had  not 
gone!  He  had  written  that  he  should  return  not 
later  than  lunch,  and  she  was  awaiting  him.  It 
must  be  so. 

He  ignored  Martin,  who  was  still  several  score 
yards  off,  and  passed  Into  the  garden.  The  front 
of  the  house  looked  exactly  as  usual.  Annunciata's 
front  window  was  open  and  one  of  the  white  curtains 
bellied  outwards  in  the  breeze,  a  common  phenom- 
enon. The  lily  was  magnificently  blooming  in 
the  drawing-room  window.  Smoke  ascended  from 
the  kitchen  chimney  to  the  left.  He  had  a  glimpse 
of  clothes  drying  on  a  line  in  the  yard  behind.  A 
hoop  that  he  remembered  buying  for  Sep  lay  on  the 
damp  grass.  And  yet  he  thought  the  house  seemed 
lifeless.  It  appeared  merely  to  simulate  life.  The 
front  door  was  open.  On  the  hall  table  was  a  small 
pile  of  letters;  the  topmost  bore  no  stamp  and  was 
addressed  to  him  in  his  wife's  hand.     He  dropped 


RENEE  233 

his  stick  with  a  rattle  into  the  umbrella  stand,  and 
pushed  his  hat  to  the  back  of  his  head.  Then  he 
picked  up  the  envelope,  and  nervously  ripped  it 
open  with  fingers  that  visibly  trembled.  The  ink 
was  pale,  had  only  just  been  blotted.  The  note 
bore  no  date,  and  began  with  no  form  of  address. 
It  ran:  "Your  letter  came  by  the  second  delivery. 
We  are  just  leaving.  I  shall  take  the  children  to 
Folkestone.  You  cannot  expect  me  to  stay.  I 
have  consulted  a  solicitor  (Mr.  Cyples).  He  will 
attend  to  things.  Of  course  the  servants  know  noth- 
ing. I  take  Martha  with  me.  A.  F." 
'  As  his  eyes  absorbed  the  letter  he  heard  the  wheel 
of  Martin's  barrow  crunching  the  gravel,  and  with 
astonishing  bravado  he  came  out  to  the  porch  and 
spoke   to   Martin. 

"They  caught  the  train  all  right."*" 

"Oh  yes,  sir.  Missis  was  that  nervous  of  missing 
it,  us  got  there  twenty  minutes  afore  time."  Martin 
smiled  as  one  man  may  to  another  in  discussing  a 
woman. 

"Good,  so  long  as  you  caught  it."  Fearns's  de- 
meanour was  unsuspicious  and  unenquiring. 

He  was  unconsciously  crushing  the  letter  in 
his  hand.  Of  course  she  had  left  the  house 
early  in  order  to  minimize  the  chance  of  meeting 
him. 

He  glanced  into  the  drawing  room — It  was  empty; 


234  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

Into  the  dining  room — It  was  empty.  The  house  was 
like  an  echoing,  deserted  place,  where  history  crouches 
in  the  corners.  Then  his  ear  distinguished  the 
distant  sound  of  a  servant  singing  in  a  rude  and 
vulgar  voice,  fragments  of  a  music  hall  song.  He 
surmised  that  it  must  be  the  new  cook,  whom  he  had 
scarcely  seen.  The  household  machine,  under  his 
wife's  control,  never  creaked  in  his  hearing;  he  never 
had  any  curiosity  as  to  the  works,  and  his  wife  never 
displayed  them  to  him. 

So  she  was  gone!  Of  all  the  husbands  in  the  Five 
Towns,  this  indignity  had  happened  to  him!  In- 
credible! Insupportable!  She  must  come  back! 
The  children  must  come  back!  It  was  all  a  mistake. 
He  would  see  Cyples.  Consulted  Cyples,  had  she.^* 
Well,  Cyples  or  no  Cyples,  she  must  come  back! 
And  all  the  time  he  knew  with  certainty  that  not  he, 
nor  forty  thousand  such  as  he  could  persuade  Alma 
to  abandon  a  course  of  action,  once  she  had  decided 
that  It  was  her  duty  to  follow  it.  She  would  yield 
to  him  in  everything  until  her  conscience  was 
aroused,  and  then  she  would  be  adamant.  Always 
he  had  more  or  less  mildly  tyrannized  over  her, 
Imposed  his  will  upon  her,  taken  advantage  of  her 
sweet  acquiescence,  and  yet  he  was  profoundly 
aware  that  hers  was  the  stronger  spirit.  He  felt 
that  if  she  had  gone  she  had  Irrevocably  gone. 

Sick  and  shamed,  he  went  upstairs  and  wandered 


RENEE  23s 

about.  He  could  hear  the  singing  more  plainly 
now.  It  proceeded  from  the  second  floor,  where  the 
servants'  bedrooms  were.  In  his  own  bedroom 
nothing  was  abnormal.  Nor  was  there  any  sign  of 
untidiness  in  his  wife's  room.  He  hastened  fever- 
ishly to  her  wardrobe.  It  was  empty.  He  stared 
blankly  Into  Its  emptiness.  And  in  the  corner 
to  the  right  of  the  wardrobe,  where  her  boots 
and  shoes  were  wont  to  be  arranged  in  a  row, 
there  was  nothing. 

"Well,  of  course  she's  gone!"  he  muttered  sav- 
agely, as  he  saw  himself,  with  his  hat  at  the  back  of 
his  head,  reflected  in  the  pier  glass.  "What  the 
hell  do  you  expect.^  Did  you  expect  her  to  send  for 
the  governess  and  kiss  her.''  They're  all  gone.  So 
there  you  are!" 

He  wandered  Into  Annunclata's  room,  which  was 
littered  with  newspapers  and  empty  cardboard  boxes. 
He  was  not  very  well  acquainted  with  Annunclata's 
room,  and  he  examined  It  with  inquisitive  misery. 
This,  then,  was  the  retreat  of  the  mysterious  creat- 
ure, his  daughter.  He  thought  that  he  had  never 
known  his  daughter.  How  disturbing  it  was  that 
children  should  grow  up  under  the  gaze  of  their 
parents,  and  yet  be  utter  strangers  to  their  parents! 
Imagine  it:  Annunciata  had  ruined  him.  It  seemed 
only  yesterday  that  Annunciata  was  small  enough 
to  be  put  in  the  corner,  and  now  she  had  come  be- 


236  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

tween  him  and  Alma  and  pushed  them  into  the 
Divorce  Court.     The  little  Annunciata! 

Was  it  the  Divorce  Court?  He  wondered.  Yes, 
Alma  would  be  capable  of  suing  for  divorce.  The 
perception  of  his  wife's  moral  courage  chilled  him 
in  the  region  of  the  spine.  Unless  he  could  alter 
her  notion  of  her  duty  he  was  done  for.  All  the 
Five  Towns  would  laugh  at  him,  revile  him,  say  that 
he  had  got  what  he  deserved,  and  sympathize  with 
her.  He  scanned  the  letter.  "Mr.  Cyples  — he  will 
attend  to  things!"  What  could  that  mean,  if  not 
divorce?  It  might  mean  that  Cyples  had  merely 
been  asked  to  look  after  her  private  income;  she 
had  four  hundred  and  fifty  a  year.  Perhaps  It  was 
that.  He  tried  to  believe  that  she  did  not  intend 
divorce,  but  he  scarcely  succeeded. 

He  kicked  a  newspaper  lying  on  the  floor,  as  he 
moved  about  the  room;  an  odd  glove  was  concealed 
under  It.  That  was  like  Annunclata's  untidiness. 
She  had  probably  gone  to  the  station  with  only  one 
glove.  His  eye  roved.  There  was  dust  on  the 
night  table,  showing  clearly  where  books  had  been. 
And  above  the  table  he  noticed  an  oblong  patch  of 
the  wall  paper  that  was  lighter  in  tone  than  the 
rest.  A  picture  had  hung  over  that  patch.  He 
puzzled  his  brain  to  think  what  the  picture  could  be, 
for  none  of  the  other  pictures  had  been  moved. 
And  at  length  he  remembered.     It  was  her  mother's 


RENEE  237 

portrait  that  Annunclata  had  taken  away  with  her. 
He  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  sat  down 
heavily  on  the  unmade  bed,  amid  the  litter.  He 
heard  the  faint  rubbing  of  the  curtain  against  the 
window  sash,  and  the  coarse  singing  of  the  servant; 
and  he  stared  at  the  oblong  patch  on  the  wall  and 
wept.  He  had  not  sufficient  volition  left  to  keep 
the  tears  from  spilling. 

There  was  a  scampering  tread  up  the  servants' 
staircase. 

"Martin  says  master's  come."  He  heard  the 
rapid    whisper. 

"Well,  what  be  that?"  It  was  assuredly  the  new 
cook  who  had  replied. 

One  or  other  of  the  girls  might  at  any  moment 
surprise  him  sitting  there  like  a  fool  on  the  bed.  He 
wiped  his  eyes  with  his  hand  and  went  downstairs 
into  the  dining-room  with  a  step  of  exaggerated 
firmness,  leaving  his  hat  in  the  hall.  The  clock 
showed  half-past  twelve.  He  was  astounded  to  dis- 
cover that  he  had  been  in  the  house  nearly  an 
hour. 

Two  minutes  later  the  parlour  maid  entered  with 
a  white  table  cloth. 

"Good  morning,  sir,"  she  said,  flouncing  her  skirt. 

"Good  morning,"  he  answered,  and  looked 
steadily  out  of  the  window, 

"Missis  said  I  was  to  say  there  was  cold  beef  and 


238  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

a  rabbit  pie,  and  would  you  like  scrambled    eggs 
first,  sir?"     Her  tone  was  decidedly  peculiar. 

He    coughed.     "No    eggs,"    he    murmured,    and 
tried  hard  to  make  his  voice  easy  and  natural. 


"Yes,   sir." 


And  when  the  lunch  was  served  he  stood  and  be- 
held it,  a  little  archipelago  of  dishes  in  the  middle 
of  the  great  table.  His  loneliness  overcame  him. 
For  more  than  twenty  years  he  had  been  the  petted 
and  pampered  god  of  the  household.  His  wife  or 
daughter,  or  both,  were  continually  thinking  of  his 
convenience  and  satisfaction.  Never  did  he  eat 
alone.  "Some  one  must  be  in  to  keep  father  com- 
pany." It  was  all  father,  father.  They  lived  for 
him.  As  the  state  of  the  tide  is  always  at  the  back 
of  a  mariner's  mind,  so  were  his  moods  at  the  back 
of  their  minds.  And  now  they  had  gone.  They  had 
fled.  Their  pure  and  delicious  influence,  which 
used  to  spread  through  the  house  like  a  universal 
ether,  had  vanished.  He  had  the  place  to  himself,  and 
it  was  no  longer  a  home;  it  was  a  strange  and  inhos- 
pitable tenement,  a  furnished  lodging.  "Yes,"  he 
growled  gazing  at  the  embroidered  napkin  ring 
which  Annunciata  had  stitched  for  his  birthday 
years  ago,  "and  it's  my  damned  lechery  that's 
brought  me  to  this!"  He  thought  of  all  the  scandal 
and  the  gossip;  a  few  hours,  and  the  condition  of 
his  domestic  affairs  would  be  common  knowledge. 


CHAPTER  VII 

PHYLLIS 

ONE  afternoon  a  telegraph  boy  brought  a 
telegram  for  Phyllis  Ridware  to  her 
mother's  little  house  in  Sproston  Street, 
behind  the  Mechanics'  Institution.  She  opened  it 
and  read  a  message  from  Emery  Greatbatch  asking 
her  to  go  and  see  him  at  once.  Since  the  day  when 
she  parted  from  her  husband  she  had  had  no  com- 
munication of  any  kind  from  Emery,  though  she  had 
written  to  him  three  letters  which  imperatively  de- 
manded replies.  The  request  In  the  telegram  sur- 
prised her,  for  the  strictest  prudence  having  been 
enjoined  by  Mr.  Cyples,  and  old  Mrs.  Capewell 
having  implored  her  in  the  same  sense,  with  tears, 
she  had,  in  her  letters  to  Emery,  emphasized  the 
necessity  for  extreme  discretion.  And  yet  now, 
after  an  incomprehensible  silence,  he  was  asking 
her  to  visit  him  at  his  rooms  in  Oldcastlel 

She  went  upstairs,  and  somewhat  elaborately  made 
ready  to  depart;  and  as  she  moved  about  the  small 
bedroom  which  her  mother  had  placed  at  her  dis- 
posal, her  lips  were  firmly  pressed  together  and  her 

239 


240  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

eyes  scintillating.  She  stuck  the  pins  into  her  hat, 
and  tied  her  veil  behind,  with  cold  and  leisurely 
exactitude,  but  as  she  put  on  a  pair  of  nearly  new 
gloves,  her  gestures  began  to  be  less  calm.  She 
picked  up  a  tiny  satchel  and  her  parasol  almost 
feverishly,  and  she  ran  downstairs.  At  that  in- 
stant there  was  a  rat-tat  at  the  door. 

"I'll  attend  to  the  door,  mother,"  she  cried,  "I'm 
just  going  out."     The  old  lady  was  resting. 

Paul  Pennington  was  at  the  door.  He  was  dressed 
in  his  usual  neat  modest  dark  gray  suit,  with  the 
bowler  hat,  and  he  carried  his  usual  little  black  bag. 
And  he  stood  very  upright  and  stiff. 

"Good  afternoon,  Mrs.  Ridware,"  said  he,  quietly 
saluting.  "May  I  speak  to  you.'*" 

"Certainly,  Mr.  Pennington,"  she  answered  icily. 

"May  I  step  inside  a  moment.'"'  he  suggested, 
as  she  gave  no  sign  of  letting  him  in. 

She  stood  away  from  the  door,  and  he  entered 
the  narrow  lobby. 

"Well,  Mr.  Pennington.?" 

He  unfastened  his  black  bag,  having  deposited 
his  hat  carefully  on  a  chair,  and  handed  her  two 
papers. 

"I  have  to  serve  you  with  these,"  he  said. 

She  took  them.  "Is  that  all.?"  she  replied  with  a 
scornful  smile. 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  said  Pennington,  and  hurried 


PHYLLIS  241 

away,  forgetting  even  to  say  "good  afternoon." 
Beneath  that  Impassive  exterior  he  had  been  ex- 
cessively nervous. 

Phyllis  glanced  at  the  papers.  One  was  marked 
"Citation"  and  the  other  "Petition,"  and  both  of 
them  commenced  with  the  formidable  phrase, 
"In  the  High  Court  of  Justice."  She  saw  her  own 
name,  and  her  husband's  name,  and  the  name  of 
Emery  Greatbatch,  and  in  several  places  the  word 
"adultery."  Then  without  trying  to  comprehend 
them,  she  stuffed  the  documents  into  her  satchel. 

"What  is  it.''"  old  Mrs.  Capewell  asked,  appearing 
at  the  sitting  room  door. 

"Nothing,  mother,"  Phyllis  shouted;  her  mother 
had  latterly  grown  deaf. 

Mrs.  Capewell's  face  was  anxious.  She  obvi- 
ously did  not  credit  her  daughter  with  speaking  the 
truth.  The  next  moment  Phyllis  was  gone  without 
another  word. 

She  took  the  Oldcastle  car,  and  in  less  than  half 
an  hour  she  was  in  the  prim  red  market  place  of 
the  exalted  borough  which  draws  its  skirts  away 
from  the  grimy  contact  of  the  Five  Towns,  and 
employs  its  vast  leisure  in  brooding  upon  an  ancient 
and  exciting  past.  Oldcastle  has  the  best  schools, 
bookshops,  and  pastrycooks  in  the  northern  half  of 
the  county.  It  is  not  industrial;  it  never  will  be. 
It  stands   for  history,   and   carefully  conserves  its 


242  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

Georgian  mansions  and  that  air  of  distinguished 
respectability  which  makes  it  the  secret  envy  of  the 
Five  Towns.  Phyllis  was  so  little  familiar  with 
Oldcastle  that  she  was  compelled  to  ask  her  way  to 
the  street  at  the  lower  end  of  the  town  where 
Emery  Greatbatch  resided.  But  on  the  rare  oc- 
casions when  she  went  into  it,  the  aspect  of  Old- 
castle always  particularly  appealed  to  her.  She 
would  have  liked  to  live  there.  Even  a  divorce 
case  in  Oldcastle  would  carry  with  it  a  certain 
decent  refinement. 

Greatbatch  lived  in  lodgings  —  two  medium 
sized  rooms  on  the  ground  floor,  separated  by  fold- 
ing doors.  But  by  means  of  personally  acquired 
furniture  he  had  given  to  his  abode  some  semblance 
of  a  hom.e,  and  he  was  very  well  cared  for  by  a  good- 
natured  landlady.  There  are  some  men  who  have 
the  gift  of  inspiring  devotion  in  landladies,  and 
Emery  was  one  of  them.  It  was  not,  however,  the 
landlady  who  answered  Phyllis's  ring.  It  was 
Emery  himself.  At  the  first  glance  at  her  lover, 
Phyllis  gave  a  little  gasp  of  amazement,  and  her 
cheek  paled.  Then,  realizing  that  her  demeanour 
was  affecting  him,  she  summoned  her  extraordinary 
faculty  of  courageous  self-possession  and  pretended 
that  she  noticed  nothing  strange.  Less  than  three 
weeks  before  she  had  left  him  a  florid,  powerful 
and    somewhat    obese    man,    with     huge  unwieldy 


PHYLLIS  243 

shoulders  to  match  his  height,  and  a  general  ap- 
pearance which  indicated  dogged  force.  She  now 
saw  him  wasted,  if  not  absolutely  emaciated,  with 
a  wrinkled  and  dried  skin  of  peculiar  tint,  and  a 
fatigued  apprehensive  look  in  his  eyes;  and  she 
thought,  in  despair,  "Can  our  misfortune  have 
brought  him  to  this?"  He  was  no  longer  the  same 
man.     His  clothes  hung  loose  on  him. 

She  tripped  lightly  up  the  two  stone  steps  leading 
to  the  house,  and,  closing  her  sunshade,  entered  in 
silence.  Emery  shut  the  door  and  with  febrile 
abruptness  folded  her  in  his  arms;  and  as  he  took  her, 
and  as  she  abandoned  herself,  brief  though  the 
caress  was,  there  stole  over  them  both  the  profound 
and  noble  satisfaction  which  only  genuine  passion 
can  induce,  and  which  no  disasters  can  entirely  mar. 
The  whole  of  Phyllis's  bearing  was  changed  in  his 
presence.  Her  beauty  grew  softer,  and  lost  its 
enigmatic  quality.  Her  mouth  and  eyes  ceased 
their  disturbing  and  challenging  mockery.  She 
seemed  to  submit  gladly,  humbly,  unreservedly,  with 
a  sort  of  splendid  and  complete  honesty.  Emery 
might  indeed  boast  that  Phyllis  was  one  woman  to 
him  and  a  different  woman  to  the  rest  of  the  world. 

"You're  ill,  my  poor  boy,"  she  murmured,  "why 
didn't  you  write  to  me  at  my  mother's  as  I  told  you.'"' 

"I  only  got  your  letters  this  morning,"  he  replied. 
"Yes,  I've  been  ill." 


244  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

"Then  didn't  you  know  till  this  morning  that 
Lawrence  had " 

"No,"  he  smiled  sadly.  He  put  a  hand  on  her 
shoulder  to  steady  himself,  and  she  clutched  it 
warmly. 

"You  aren't  so  weak  as  all  that.^*"  she  demanded. 

He  nodded.  "Come  and  sit  down,"  he  said. 
"The  old  woman's  out,  won't  be  back  for  a  couple 
of  hours.     I've  sent  her  out." 

They  passed  into  the  sitting-room.  A  large  sofa 
occupied  the  space  between  the  curtained  window 
and  the  door,  opposite  the  chimney-piece,  and  the 
arrangement  of  cushions  showed  that  Emery  had 
been  lying  there.  He  allowed  her  to  persuade  him 
gently  to  resume  his  place;  he  scarce  protested  when 
she  lifted  his  legs  on  to  the  sofa.  Then  he  made 
space  for  her  to  sit  by  him,  and,  gazing  at  him,  she 
removed  her  gloves  and  hat. 

"Well,  child,"  he  said,  "I've  got  you  into  a  nice 


mess." 


"  Don't  talk  about  that  yet, "  she  answered  gravely. 
'Tell  me  about  your  illness,  what  is  it?" 

Before  answering,  he  glanced  long  into  the  humid 
eyes  of  the  creature  who  had  ruined  his  life,  and  whose 
life  he  had  ruined.  When  these  two  had  first  loved, 
they  were  young  enough  and  proud  enough  to 
quarrel.  The  altercation  had  sprung  from  his  strong 
sense  of  justice  and  from  her  perfect  lack  of  that 


PHYLLIS  245 

sense.  She  had  been  in  the  wrong;  she  had  scarcely 
denied  it.  But  she  would  not  yield.  She  sincerely 
imagined  that  it  was  his  place  to  yield,  and  he  would 
have  yielded,  had  not  the  yielding  presented  itself 
to  him  as  a  violation  of  the  elementary  principles 
of  justice.  Her  attitude  had  shocked  him,  as,  later, 
her  attitude  had  shocked  her  husband;  but  while 
Emery  was  capable  of  a  mighty  and  terrible  passion, 
Lawrence  was  not.  From  the  date  of  their  quarrel 
to  the  hour  when,  Phyllis  being  a  married  woman 
they  had  met  by  mere  accident  in  Glasgow,  Emery 
had  never  spoken  to  her,  had  not  even  seen  her  more 
than  once  or  twice.  The  love  which  was  to  destroy 
them  had  slept  like  a  damped  fire,  and  then  ten 
words  of  greeting  had  shown  them  their  hearts, 
and  in  an  instant  of  time  they  were  lapped  from  head 
to  foot  in  the  living  flame.  There  were  no  expla- 
nations, no  apologies,  no  reluctances,  no  shames. 
The  past  was  consumed.  They  both  realized  what 
lay  in  front  of  them,  of  misery  in  bliss,  and  they 
went  forward.  In  a  week  the  irremediable  had 
happened,  and,  accepting  each  other  candidly, 
embracing  with  gladness  each  other's  imperfections, 
they  launched  without  regret  into  an  existence  of 
deceit  and  dishonour.  They  had  no  alternative. 
And  what  an  existence!  To  what  subterfuges  were 
they  reduced!  Why,  for  his  letters  to  her,  they 
created  a  post-office  in  the  bricked-up  mouth  of  an 


246  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

old  pitshaft  on  the  Toft  End  slope,  and  he  would 
deposit  his  missives  therein  at  dusk,  walking  the 
four  miles  to  Oldcastle  afterward! 

"You  remember,"  he  began  weakly,  "I  told  you 
I  was  going  to  Manchester  as  usual  this  year  with 
the  entries  for  the  sports  to  get  the  handicapping 
done.  I  always  come  back  the  same  night,  because 
old  Markyate  can  generally  finish  his  job  in  about 
three  or  four  hours.  But  he  was  unwell,  and  there 
were  fifty  per  cent,  more  entries  than  usual,  and  he 
said  he  couldn't  guarantee  to  finish  'em  that  day. 
It  was  a  Saturday  and  the  Carl  Rosa  were  doing 
Tristan  at  Prince's,  so  I  thought  I'd  stay  over 
night,  and  see  that  and  come  back  Sunday  after- 
noon. When  I  woke  up  the  next  morning  in  the 
hotel,  I  couldn't  make  out  what  was  the  matter 
with  me.  Something  with  my  left  eye  —  I  couldn't 
see  out  of  it,  and  I  was  so  feeble.  I  just  managed 
to  get  as  far  as  a  doctor's.  The  doctor  said  I'd 
had  a  hemorrhage  into  my  retina  while  I  was 
asleep." 

"A  hemorrhage!"  she  replied.  "But  how  came 
you  to  have  a  hemorrhage  like  that.'"' 

"How  can  I  tell?"  Emery  said,  after  a  pause. 
"The  doctor  looked  after  me  a  bit.  I  fancied  I 
was  good  enough  to  go  to  the  handicapper's,  and  I 
did  go.  I  got  into  the  house,  but  I  couldn't  leave 
vt,  and  those  people  have  been  looking  after  me  till 


PHYLLIS  247 

this  blessed  day.  You  wouldn't  believe  how  kind 
they  were!" 

"His  wife?" 

"No,  he's  a  widower  —  his  two  daughters.  I 
had  to  have  an  oculist  at  last.  I  couldn't  sleep, 
and  he  enucleated  the  eye,  as  the  term  is.  Then  I 
was  easier." 

"And  now  it's  quite  better.?" 

"You  don't  notice  anything,  do  you.''" 

She  examined  the  eye.  "No,"  she  said,  "but 
how  it's  pulled  you  to  pieces,  my  poor  boy!" 

"Well,  you  know,  a  hemorrhage!  What  can  you 
expect.""' 

"It's  horribly  strange,"  she  muttered. 

"It  is  strange,"  he  agreed.  "However,  it's  all 
over  now." 

"And  I  never  knew!  Emery, why  didn't  you " 

"How  could  I.?"  he  protested.  "Mallows,  the 
classical  master,  came  over  to  see  me.  But  how 
could  I  let  you  know,  child.?  I  found  your  letters 
here  this  morning  when  I  arrived.  The  old  woman 
was  In  a  pretty  state,  you  may  guess.  I  had  the 
greatest  trouble  in  the  world  to  get  her  out  of  the 
house.  She  thought  I  was  dying,  whereas  the  fact 
Is  I'm  lots  better." 

"Really  better.?" 

"My  God!     If  you'd  seen  me  last  week!" 

She    bent     her    face   to    his,  and     put  her  arms 


248  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

round  his  neck,  and  kissed  him  with  slow,  deliberate 
kisses. 

"Emery!"  she  said.  "I'm  not  satisfied.  I  shall 
fetch  a  doctor  here. " 

"Much  better  fetch  a  lawyer,"  he  replied  curtly 
and  feebly,  and  then  sighed.  "Phil,  what  the  devil 
are  we  to  do?     How  did  he  find  out?" 

"What's  'enucleated?'"  she  asked,  putting  a 
hand  on  his  forehead. 

"Oh!"  he  said.  "Just  cleaning  out,  straighten- 
ing up." 

"Did  it  hurt  you?" 

"No,  very  little.  You  say  you've  gone  to  Brad- 
well's,  eh?" 

Leaving  the  topic  of  his  illness,  she  began  to  tell  him 
in  minute  detail  all  that  had  happened  during  his  ab- 
sence. She  related  her  impressions  of  the  evening 
when  Mark  Ridware  fell  into  the  house  at  Toft  End 
like  a  bolt  from  the  blue;  and  how  she  had  left  the 
brothers  and  gone  to  her  mother,  calling  on  the  way 
at  the  pit's  mouth  to  see  if  by  chance  there  was  a  let- 
ter for  her;  and  how  she  had  denied  her  guilt  to  her 
mother  while  admitting  a  perfectly  innocent,  desul- 
tory friendship  with  Emery  for  the  sake  of  old  times; 
and  how  her  mother  eagerly  and  passionately  believed 
her,  asserting  that  she  had  never  really  liked  Ridware; 
and  how  they  had  paid  a  visit  to  Cyples  together, 
because  Cyples  had  been  a  friend  of  her  father's. 


PHYLLIS  249 

"I  don't  think  Mr.  Cyples  quite  believed  me," 
said  Phyllis  calmly.  "But  he  pretended  to,  and  he 
talked  to  mother  in  exactly  the  right  tone.  Wasn't 
it  fortunate  I  overheard  what  Lawrence  told 
Mark.''  That  gave  me  my  line.  I  explained  that 
night  at  Easter,  and  I've  carefully  remembered 
exactly  what  I  said.  I  said  you  were  ill,  and  you 
were^  you  know,  a  little.  And  now  your  being  ill 
again  like  this!  It  fits  in,  doesn't  it.^  .  .. 
What's  the  matter.?" 

"Nothing,"  said  he. 

"You  look  so  queer."  She  sighed.  "I  did  the 
best  I  could.  I  couldn't  see  you,  and  so  I  did  the 
best  I  could  without  you.  Emery,  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  your  prospects  and  all  that,  I  would  have  told 
them  straight  out  that  it  was  every  bit  true  and 
they  could  get  as  many  divorces  as  they  chose, 
for  all  we  cared.     Dearest,  what  are  we  to  do?" 

"There  isn't  much  to  do,  "  he  replied.  "We'll 
fight,  of  course,  but  it's  all  up." 

"If  it's  all  up,"  she  said  stifl^^y,  "why  fight? 
Why  not  go  away  at  once?  Go  to  Canada  or  some- 
where? I  don't  mind.  Anywhere.  It  can  be 
done.  It's  been  done  lots  of  times."  A  dark  flush 
overspread  her  cheeks. 

He  gave  an  inarticulate  murmur. 

"Why,  my  darling  boy,  you're  crying!"  she 
exclaimed,  an  immense  astonishment  in  her  voice. 


250  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

He  could  not  speak.  The  tears  flowed  slowly  from 
his  eyes,  and  she  gazed  at  him,  alarmed  by  this  extra- 
ordinary symptom  of  his  physical  condition. 

Just  then  there  was  a  sharp  ring  at  the  door. 
Phyllis  rose. 

"I'll  go,"  Emery  managed  to  say,  lifting  his 
head,  and  grimacing  to  control  himself. 

"You  will  stay  where  you  are,"  she  slowly 
ordered  him. 

"But  you  can't  possibly  be  seen  here,  answering 
my  door!"  he  argued. 

"Can't  I!"  said  she,  indignantly.  "And  you  ill 
like  that!  If  it's  all  up,  I'm  here  to  nurse  you,  and 
I  won't  leave  you." 

The  ring  was  repeated. 

"Really,"  she  murmured.  "They're  in  a  hurry!'' 
Her  nostrils  were  dilated,  and  she  left  the  room  with 
a  gesture  of  impetuous  enterprise. 

In  vain  he  called  after  her:  "Look  through  the 
window  and  see  who  it  is,  first." 

She  opened  the  front  door.  And  Paul  Pennington 
confronted  her  for  the  second  time  that  afternoon. 
Of  the  two,  Paul  was  far  the  more  disconcerted. 
His  face  gradually  reddened,  and  he  could  scarcely 
look  at  her.  She  waited  haughtily  for  him  to 
speak.  "Mrs.  Ridware!"  he  began  lamely;  "I 
came     ...     is  this  Mr.  Grcatbatch's?" 

"Yes." 


PHYLLIS  251 

"Is  he  in?  Can  I  see  him?"  He  unconsciously- 
brought  his  black  bag  into  prominence. 

"Mr.  Greatbatch  can't  be  seen,"  said  Phyllis, 
staring  out  into  the  street. 

"I'm  sorry.  If  he's  at  home  .  .  one  moment  .  . 
I  .   .  .    " 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  come  in, "  Phyllis  changed 
her  mind,  speaking  in  a  resigned  tone.  "Please 
walk  this  way.  Mr.  Greatbatch  is  lying  down." 
She  boldly  preceded  him  into  the  sitting-room, 
and,  pointing  to  the  form  on  the  sofa:  "That  is 
Mr.  Greatbatch."  And  she  added  in  a  different 
tone  to  Emery:  "Here  is  some  one  wants  to  see 
you.     No,  do  not  move,  please." 

"Are  you  Mr.  Emery  Greatbatch.^"  Pennington 
enquired. 

"Yes,"  said  Emery,  entirely  bewildered,  but  with 
a  defiant  expression. 

Pennington  deposited  his  baton  a  chair,  opened  his 
bag,  and  produced  two  documents.  "I  have  to 
serve  you  with  these,"  he  said,  handing  the  long 
narrow  papers  to  Emery,  who  accepted  them  limply. 
"Thank  you.  That  is  all.  I'm  sorry  to  trouble 
you." 

Paul  Pennington  hastened  off,  like  a  criminal 
seen  in  the  act. 

"What  else  could  I  have  done,  my  poor  boy?" 
cried  Phyllis,  sitting  down  on  the  sofa  when  they 


252  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

were  alone  again.     "He  saw  me  at  the  door.     I've 
had  those  papers,  too.     It's  the  —  the  case." 

"When  did  you  have  them.?" 

"This  afternoon.     Just  before  I  came.     What  do 
they  say.''" 

She  craned  her  neck  to  look  at  one  of  the  docu- 
ments as  he  read,  with  a  forced  note  of  amusement 
in  his  voice :  "  'In  the  High  Court  of  Justice,  Probate 
Divorce  and  Admiralty  Division  (Divorce).  Edward 
by  the  Grace  of  God  .  .  .  hum  .  .  .  hum  .  .  . 
hum  .  .  ,  To  Emery  Greatbatch  of  Oldcastle  in  the 
County  of  Staffordshire.  Whereas  Lawrence  Rid- 
ware  of  Bursley  in  the  said  County,  claiming  to  be 
lawfully  married  to  Phyllis  Ridware,  had  filed  his 
petition  against  her  In  the  Divorce  Registry  of  our 
said  Court,  praying  for  a  dissolution  of  marriage, 
wherein  he  alleges  that  you  have  been  guilty  of 
adultery  with  her.  Now  this  is  to  command  you  that 
within  eight  days  after  service  hereof  on  you  .  .  . 
hum  .  .  .  hum  .  .  .  hum  .  .  .  you  do  appear  In 
our  said  Court  then  and  there  to  make  answer 
to  the  said  petition,  a  copy  whereof,  sealed  with  the 
seal  of  our  said  Court,  is  herewith  served  upon  you. 
And  take  notice  that  in  default  of  your  so  doing, 
our  said  Court  will  proceed  to  hear  the  said  charge 
proved  in  due  course  of  law,  and  to  pronounce  sen- 
tence therein,  your  absence  notwithstanding.  And 
take  further  notice  that  for  the  purpose  aforesaid  you 


PHYLLIS  253 

are  to  attend  in  person,  or  by  your  solicitor.  .  . 
hum  .  .  .  hum  .  .  .  hum  .  .  .  enter  an  appearance 
in  a  book  provided  for  that  purpose,  without  which 
you  will  not  be  allowed  to  address  the  Court  .  .  . 
hum  .  .  .  hum  .  .  .  hum  .  .  .  Dated  at  London. 
.  .  .  hum  .  .  .  hum  .  .  .  and  in  the  second  year 
of  our  reign.'  My  stars,  what  a  thumping  seal!" 
The  sight  and  fingering  of  these  papers,  hers  and 
his,  which  were,  however,  nothing  but  common 
glazed  foolscap  forms,  filled  in  by  shabby  copying- 
clerks  and  perfunctorily  sealed  in  stuffy  official 
bureaus,  seemed  to  startle  the  lovers.  In  spite 
of  themselves,  their  very  voices  were  altered.  They 
strove  to  affect  that  these  papers  left  them  unmoved, 
but  they  did  not  succeed.  And  as  for  Emery  Great- 
batch,  he  could  feel  his  mistress's  heart  beating 
against  his  breast.  The  first  rays  of  the  terrifying 
lamp  which  justice  holds  aloft  had  suddenly  touched 
them,  displaying  their  deeds  in  a  new  and  eerie 
light.  And  when  they  read  together  in  the  sealed 
copy  of  Lawrence's  petition  the  precise  details  of 
their  adultery,  with  the  day  of  the  month,  and  the 
names  of  the  town  and  the  street  and  the  number  of 
the  house  in  the  street,  the  black-and-white  of  the 
recital  in  some  curious  way  communicated  to  them 
a  sense  of  guilt  and  of  shame  such  as  they  had  not 
before  experienced.  Phyllis  began  to  talk,  repeat- 
ing her  previous  explanations  in  almost  the  same 


254  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

words;  and  he,  in  order  to  be  more  sure  than  sure, 
repeated  previous  questions,  well  knowing  the  an- 
swers he  would  receive.  And  they  were  soon  in  the 
midst  of  one  of  those  immense  and  formless  conver- 
sations in  which  a  complex  subject  is  discussed  with- 
out order  interminably,  and  without  apparent  result, 
until  there  comes  a  moment  when  the  speakers  per- 
ceive that  all  the  ground  has  been  many  times  cov- 
ered and  that  it  is  no  longer  possible  to  say  anything 
that  has  not  already  been  said;  and  pauses  occur, 
and  the  unavoidable  conclusion  emerges  and  shapes 
itself  and  imperiously  demands  acceptance.  And 
while  Emery's  mind  had  room  for  a  shameful 
sympathy  with  his  old  friend  Lawrence,  while 
Phyllis  could  only  think  of  Lawrence  with  an  almost 
virulent  hate,  the  conclusion  here  was  that  this 
Lawrence,  that  distant  and  threatening  figure, 
once  so  mild,  once  so  Ignored  and  flouted,  would 
inevitably  crush  them  in  the  battle  that  was  to 
ensue.  They  saw  that  they  must  either  flee,  or 
fall  with  an  indomitable  but  futile  lie  on  their  lips. 

There  was  a  silence  in  the  room. 

Phyllis  broke  it.  '  'What  are  you  thinking  about?" 
she  murmured,  and  gently  took  the  papers  from  his 
hand  and  put  them  on  the  table. 

"I  was  wondering  what  I  could  do  for  you.^" 
he  answered,  turning  a  little  on  his  side  in  order  to 
follow  her  movements  with  his  eyes. 


({ 


PHYLLIS  255 

My  poor  boy,"  she  said,  "As  soon  as  you  are 
better  we  must  collect  what  money  we  can,  and  leave, 
mustn't  we?  It  isn't  for  me,  it's  because  you  won't 
possibly  be  able  to  stay  on  at  the  school." 

"But  you've  denied  everything  to  your  mother 
and  Mr.  Cyples.     Our  going  would " 

"Does  that  matter?"  she  exclaimed  impatiently. 
"That  was  only  a  precaution.  What  do  I  care?" 
She  was  standing  over  him  now,  and  her  hand  ca- 
ressed his  shoulder.  Could  Lawrence  have  seen  the 
persuasive  smile  on  her  face,  it  would  have  recalled 
to  him  the  sweet  forgotten  marvels  of  their  early 
acquaintance,  whose  memory  had  been  washed  out 
of  his  heart  by  the  bitterness  of  later  years. 

Emery  glanced  up  at  her,  with  a  sickly  and  self- 
conscious  grin  —  which  he  meant  to  be  a  smile  —  on 
his  shrunken  features. 

"Ah!"  he  muttered  shortly,  and  closed  his  lips, 
and  then  looked  meditatively  at  the  wall. 

"Emery!"  she  cried  in  renewed  alarm.  "I'm 
sure  you  aren't  telling  me  everything.  I've  felt 
it  all  along.  What  is  there  that  you  haven't  told 
me?" 

"Child!"  he  said  and  drew  her  to  him  with  his 
arms.  "It's  nearly  finished  so  far  as  I'm  concerned. 
Do  you  understand?  It's  nearly  finished  so  far  as 
I'm  concerned." 

"So  far  as  you're  concerned?     Why  — 


5> 


256  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

"That's  why  I  telegraphed  you  to  come  here. 
I  knew  just  as  well  as  you  that  it  was  indiscreet. 
I  wouldn't  have  done  it  if  the  thing  hadn't  been 
serious.     You  understand,  don't  you.'*" 

They  gazed  at  each  other,  and  Phyllis  moved  away 
from  him. 

"No!"  she  said  faintly,  and  in  her  soul  she  asked 
bitterly  of  fate:  "Can  I  be  more  unfortunate  than  I 
have  been.?" 

"Yes,"  he  insisted.  "You  do  —  this  hem- 
orrhage   " 

Her  face  became  the  colour  of  milk,  and  her  eyes 
blazed  darkly  in  the  pallor  of  that  oval. 

"  It  Isn't— serious  .f"'  she  demanded.  That  was  the 
strongest  word  she  could   induce  herself  to  employ. 

He  nodded.  "It's  the  first  symptom  of  acute 
diabetes,"  he  said,  sitting  up,  but  averting  his  gaze. 
"I'm  unfortunately  too  young  to  have  diabetes  in  a 
mild  form.  I've  had  the  first  seizure.  The  second 
will  finish  me.  It  may  be  next  month,  or  it  may  be 
delayed  for  six  months,  but  it  isn't  likely  to  be  much 
later  than  that.  And  in  the  meantime  I  shall  get  a 
little  better.     That's  the  way  of  it,  my  dear  girl." 

She  made  as  if  to  come  near  him  again,  and  then 
hesjtated. 

"Oh,    but  Emery!     Surely "  she  whispered. 

"Now,  my  dear  girl,"  he  protested  gently,  picking 
at  one  of  the  cushions.     "You  musn't  try  to  pre- 


PHYLLIS  257 

tend  it  isn't  so.  It  is  so.  You've  got  lots  of  pluck, 
or  I  wouldn't  have  told  you  —  like  that.  And  by 
God,  you'll  need  all  the  pluck  you  have!  It's 
you  that  will  suffer.  It  isn't  me.  I  shall  have  done 
with  it  all  long  before  you  have.  It  isn't  sure  even 
that  I  shall  have  the  extreme  pleasure  of  hearing 
the  trial  of  our  case."  He  shot  a  timid  momen- 
tary look  at  her. 

"Was  it  the  doctor  told  you  all  this.'"'  she  asked. 

"The  doctor  told  me  in  five  minutes  that  I'd 
got  diabetes.  It  was  partly  from  what  he  carefully 
didn't  say,  and  partly  from  what  I've  read  up  since, 
that  I  discovered  where  I  stood.  And  yet  only  two 
months  ago  I  never  suspected  that  there  was  any- 
thing the  matter  with  me  at  all !  It's  just  how  things 
happen,  that  is." 

From  her  knowledge  of  him  she  could  not  but 
believe  him. 

"And  you  knew  all  this!"  she  said,  awed.  "And 
you  travelled  here  by  yourself  from  Manchester  — 
and  then  found  my  letters!  Oh  Emery,  why  didn't 
I  know?     I  could  have  spared  you  a  little!" 

"That's  how  things  happen,"  he  repeated  me- 
chanically. 

"It's  no  use  you  saying  it  is  so,  it  is  so,"  she  said. 
"You!  So  ill  as  that!  I  can't  credit  it."  And 
after  surveying  him  with  a  long  glance,  she  threw 
herself  on  the  sofa,  sobbing. 

"I  simply  can't,"  she  wailed.     And  now  it  was  he 


258  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

who  soothed  her,  as  an  hour  before  she  had 
soothed  him. 

Her  sobs  gradually  ceased.  "Why  didn't  you 
tell  me  when  I  came.'"'  she  complained  pitifully. 
"What  was  the  use  of  us  talking  about  the  case.'"' 

"I  couldn't,"  he  said,  "I  couldn't  begin  to  tell 
you. " 

"But  I  knew  something  was  wrong.  Oh!  I 
was  certain  something  was  wrong." 

"Kiss  me,"  he  entreated  her. 

She  put  her  lips  to  his.  And  with  their  faces  to- 
gether she  murmured:  "Emery,  listen.  When  I 
wrote  to  you  time  after  time,  and  you  didn't  reply, 
do  you  know  what  I  thought.'*" 

"No,"  he  replied,  scarcely  audibly,  "what  did 
you  think  .^" 

"I'm  bound  to  tell  you.  I  thought  —  I  began  to 
think  —  that  you  meant  to  end  it." 

"End  what.?" 

"Our  relationship.  I  did  not  think  that  for  long 
together.  But  I  suspected  you  sometimes.  And 
now  I  know  that  you  were  ill  there  in  Manchester 
—  It  makes  me — Emery!"  She  burst  out  Into  wild 
sobbing.     "You  forgive  me.'"' 

He  kissed  her  again,  and  smiled.  "Nonsense!" 
he  cajoled  her,  "there's  nothing  to  forgive." 

"You  must  say  you  forgive  me,"  she  persisted 
hysterically.     "Say  it!" 


PHYLLIS  259 

"If  it  will  please  you,"  he  agreed,  and  putting 
his  mouth  to  her  ear,  he  breathed  into  it  some  words. 
"What  a  child  it  is!"  he  added,  louder.  "With  its 
fancies!" 

She  lay  calm  on  the  sofa,  clasping  him  tightly 
with  both  her  hands.  And  as  she  lay  there,  all  the 
prospect  of  suffering  which  had  appalled  her  before 
Emery  explained  his  condition  suddenly  became 
beautiful  and  desirable.  To  desolate  her  mother,  to 
quit  the  Five  Towns  stealthily  amid  circumstances  of 
utter  disgrace,  to  be  known  for  a  liar  and  an  adul- 
teress, to  creep  under  a  false  name  into  some  new 
and  infinitely  remote  town  in  another  land  and  to 
settle  there  in  continual  fear  lest  the  rumour  of  shame 
should  follow  and  overtake,  to  know  poverty  and  to 
endure  hardship,  to  struggle,  to  try  to  forget  and 
never  to  be  able  to  forget,  to  have  nothing  worth 
having  but  the  constant  companionship  of  Emery, 
and  to  grow  old  —  all  that  seemed  the  most  ex- 
quisite future  that  the  fates  could  have  offered  to 
her.  There  was  not  one  detail  of  it  that  she  would 
have  wished  to  alter.  She  saw  vague  visions  formed 
from  conventional  notions  about  far  colonies,  of 
herself  and  Emery  together  on  rich  autumn  evenings 
outside  a  bare  house  with  wide  verandahs,  gazing 
in  ecstasy  at  a  horizon  of  magnificent  mountains; 
and  the  oncoming  of  darkness,  and  the  patting  of 
dogs,  and  the  withdrawal  into  closed  rooms,  and  the 


26o  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

lighting  of  lamps,  and  the  long,  long,  changeless 
intimacy  of  two  persons  who  possessed  only  each 
other.  The  beauty  of  melancholy  and  renunciation 
took  hold  of  her  as  she  clung  to  Emery,  and  intoxi- 
cated her.  She  had  an  illusion  that  by  gripping  him 
tight  with  her  frail  and  convulsive  fingers  she  could 
keep  him  alive  forever,  that  he  could  not  die  while 
she  cleaved  to  him. 

Death  was  the  sole  terror;  and  it  was  terrible  to 
such  a  point  that  her  mind  could  not  conceive  it. 
The  coat  that  he  was  wearing,  whose  texture  was 
so  thrillingly  masculine  to  her  touch  —  was  it  possi- 
ble that  in  a  few  weeks  or  months  it  would  be  folded 
away  because  there  was  no  one  to  wear  it.^  That 
seemed  the  saddest,  cruellest  thing  in  all  the  universe. 
She  remembered  once,  years  ago,  watching  him  at 
the  breaking-up  day  of  the  Middle  School,  in  the 
cricket  field,  surrounded  by  a  mob  of  boys.  And 
she  recalled  every  slow,  easy,  muscular  movement 
of  his  burly  frame,  and  how  he  swung  a  cricket  bat 
as  though  it  had  been  a  cane,  and  how  as  he  moved 
to  and  fro  the  boys  followed  him,  admiring,  noisy 
pigmies  encircling  a  giant.  And  in  that  recollected 
scene  there  was  so  much  of  youth  and  strength, 
so  much  of  the  very  essence  of  pure  physical  life, 
that  the  idea  of  death  grew  monstrous,  wanton, 
and  obscure.  Was  he  to  lie  under  the  ground  while 
boys  still  played  and  shouted  in  the  cricket  field .^ 


PHYLLIS  261 

Was  he  never  again  to  go  out  among  them  and  talk 
to  them  and  teach  them  and  understand  them  as 
only  he  could?  .  .  .  And  she  saw  a  funeral,  and  she 
could  not  Imagine  anyone  but  herself  at  that  funeral. 
She  had  never  met  a  relative  of  Emery's.  And, 
more  poignant  still,  she  saw  herself  returning  soli- 
tary from  the  funeral,  having  left  it  behind  in  its 
everlasting  repose.  And  then  she  saw  herself, 
dressed  in  widow's  weeds  —  yes,  widow's  weeds  — 
standing  up  in  the  witness  box  in  the  High  Court  of 
Justice  and  answering  questions.  She  could  not 
hear  what  she  said,  but  she  was  very  positive,  queenly 
and  sorrowful.  And  her  tremendous  and  impassive 
grief  weighed  on  the  whole  court  like  a  pall.  And  all 
the  time  that  she  was  answering  questions  in  the 
witness  box,  she  could  see  it  lying  forlorn  and  lonely 
in  the  cemetery. 

"And  so  I  missed  the  Oldcastle  sports,"  she 
heard  him  say.  "Never  been  known  to  happen  be- 
fore. In  fact  they  very  nearly  didn't  get  the 
handicaps." 

The  sound  of  his  voice,  so  natural  and  familiar, 
with  Its  faint  trace  of  humour,  awoke  her  out  of 
what  might  have  been  a  trance.  Her  powers  of 
clear  thought  and  cool  enterprise  seemed  to  return 
to  her  like  spirits  that  had  wandered  awhile.  And 
she  reflected,  "How  foolish  and  weak  I  am  to  dream 
that  he  Is  already  dead!     He  lives.     There  Is  no 


262  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

reason  why  he  should  die.  He's  an  invalid  and  he 
has  fancies,  and  here  I  am  listening  to  them  as 
though  they  were  facts.  He  needs  to  be  looked 
after:  that  is  all.     And  I  will  look  after  him." 

She  slid  from  the  sofa  and  stood  up,  smoothing  her 
ruffled  hair.  She  felt  herself  equal  to  no  matter 
what  situation. 

"What  is  diabetes?"  she  inquired,  "I  never 
knew  that  it  was  really  dangerous." 

"Diabetes,"  he  answered,  "is  a  disease  in  which 
grape  sugar  is  secreted  in  the  fluids  of  the  body. 
The  pancreas  doesn't  work  properly." 

"Who  is  your  doctor  in  Oldcastle?" 

"Haven't  got  one.     Never  wanted  one." 

"But  surely  you  are  going  to  send  for  one  at 
once.'"' 

"I  expect  I  ought  to  have  one,"  was  the  languid 
reply.     "But  it'll  be  no  use." 

"How  tiresome  you  are,  Emery!"  she  chided  him. 
"  I  shall  fetch  one  myself,  instantly.  I'm  perfectly 
certain  that  all  you  need  is  proper  treatment.  If 
diabetes  was  as  bad  as  you  think,  I  should  have 
known  about  it;  I'm  sure  I  should." 

He  said  nothing  for  a  moment!  Then,  without 
meeting  her  eye:  "Which  doctor  shall  you  fetch.?" 

The  honoured  name  of  the  foremost  physician 
in  the  district,  an  old  man  who  was  an  authority 
throughout  England  on  diseases  connected  with  the 


PHYLLIS  263 

local  manufacture,  and  who  resided  In  Oldcastle 
itself,  flashed  across  her  mind.  In  walking  down 
the  market  place,  she  had  even  that  afternoon 
chanced  to  see  his  worn  but  glittering  brass  plate 
on  the  door  of  a  large  house. 

"I  shall  fetch  Dr.  Thatcher,"  she  said.  ''At 
least  I  shall  ask  him  to  come  some  time  before  night." 

Emery  remained  silent.  She  put  on  her  hat  and 
gloves,  and  then,  bending  her  head,  she  offered  her 
mouth,  very  quietly  and  primly.     He  kissed  her. 

"It  will  seem  rather  queer  you  going  to  old 
Thatcher's,"  he  murmured,  "and  asking  him  to 
come  to  me.  He'll  wonder  what  the  dickens  you 
have  to  do  with  it." 

She  protested  against  such  notions  with  a  gesture. 
"Nothing  seems  queer  when  it's  a  case  of  illness," 
she  said.     "Besides     .     .     ." 

And  with  a  tranquil  smile  she  left  him,  enjoining 
him  to  rest  until  she  came  back. 

As  she  emerged  into  the  street  her  features  had 
resumed  their  old  enigmatic  quality.  It  was  on 
the  steps  of  the  house  that  she  encountered  a  thin 
middle-aged  woman  with  a  key  in  her  bony  hand. 

"Why!"  she  said  to  the  woman  with  an  extraor- 
dinary warmth  of  geniality.  "You  must  be  Mrs. 
Oliver,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes,  mum.     Was  you     .     .     ." 

"Mr.  Grcatbatch  has  often  mentioned  you.     He 


264  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

says  you  are  very,  very  kind  to  him.  I'm  an  old 
friend  of  his.  So  is  my  mother."  She  lowered 
her  voice.     "You've  noticed  how  unwell  he  is.'"' 

"Eh,  miss!"  said  Mrs.  Oliver.  "Never  in  all  my 
life  have  I  seed     .     .     ." 

"  I'm  just  going  to  Dr.  Thatcher's,  to  ask  him  to 
come  as  soon  as  possible.  I'm  so  glad  Mr.  Great- 
batch  is  with  you.  Because  he'll  need  looking  after, 
and  he  won't  look  after  himself,  you  know. " 

"Not  he,  miss !  Eh,  when  he  come  in  this  morning 
I  stared  at  him  like  a  stuck  pig,  I  was  that  took 
aback!" 

"Well,  as  soon  as  Dr.  Thatcher  has  been,  we  shall 
know  what  we  ought  to  do.  I  sha'n't  be  away 
long,  Mrs.  Oliver.  He  is  lying  down  on  the 
sofa  now." 

Phyllis  nodded  and  went. 

"So  he's  got  a  young  woman  after  all!"  the 
sagacious  Mrs.  Oliver  decided.  "That's  why 
he  would  have  me  out  of  the  house.  Her's  a  hand- 
some wench,  too!    Eh,  poor  things!    Poor  things!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

DEATH 

ON  THE  day  after  the  August  Bank  Holiday 
the  ofRces  of  Charles  Fearns  opened  for  a 
few  hours  in  the  morning;  and  the  whole 
staff,  with  the  exception  of  Sillitoe,  who  had  gone 
to  Llandudno,  was  formally  present,  though  only 
Pennington  behaved  as  if  the  morning  was  quite 
an  ordinary  morning.  Shortly  after  noon  Penning- 
ton stepped  gently  into  Lawrence  Ridware's  room 
with  a  bundle  of  papers  most  neatly  tied  up  in  pink 
tape,  a  number  of  loose  sheets  of  blue  draft  on  which 
the  ink  was  scarcely  dry,  and  between  his  teeth  an 
ivory  penholder.  The  weather  was  very  warm, 
and  through  the  open  window  came  the  strident 
sounds  of  steam  whistles  and  steam  orchestras  in 
Crown  Square,  where  the  great  annual  Wakes,  that 
prodigious  revelry,  wassail,  and  debauch  of  a  rude 
and  vigorous  people,  was  beginning  its  third  day 
with  little  sign  of  fatigue. 

"It  will  perhaps  be  as  well  if  you  glance  through 
these  things,"  said  Pennington,  putting  the  bundle 
in  front  of  Lawrence.     The  latter  was  engaged  in 

265 


266  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

preparing  a  codicil  to  the  will  of  an  aged  client  who 
amused  his  final  years  by  varying  his  testamentary 
dispositions  every  few  months  and  by  speculating 
in  public  house  property. 

"Oh!"  murmured  Lawrence  stiffly,  when  he  saw 
the  bundle,  which  was  entitled  "Ridware  v.  Ridware 
and  Greatbatch."  Pennington,  having  perceived 
long  since  that  Lawrence  wished  to  stand  aloof 
from  the  proceedings,  had  conducted  them  with 
that  air  of  a  responsible  autocrat  which  he  always 
assumed  when  a  matter  had  been  left  definitely  in 
his  hands. 

"I'm  just  drawing  the  brief,"  said  Pennington, 
holding  out  the  blue  sheets. 

"Drawing  the  brief.''"  Lawrence  repeated,  appar- 
ently surprised. 

"Yes.  I  didn't  see  why  agents  should  draw  it." 
In  the  technical  vocabulary  of  the  provincial  solic- 
itor "agents"  means  the  firm  of  London  solicitors 
who  represent  him  and  act  for  him  in  affairs  demand- 
ing the  frequentation  of  courts  and  offices  in  Lon- 
don. London  solicitors  refer  to  their  professional 
clients  in  the  provinces  still  more  vaguely  as  "the 
country." 

"Certainly  not,"  Lawrence  agreed,  "but  it's 
going  along  awfully  quickly,  isn't  it.^  I  scarcely 
thought " 

"N  —  no,"     answered     Pennington,     judicially. 


DEATH  267 

"About  the  average  time.  You  see,  It's  so  simple. 
I  had  a  letter  from  agents  this  morning  to  say  that 
they  had  the  registrar's  certificate  that  the  case 
was    In    order    for    trial,  and  would    be    set    down 


at  once." 


"So  much  the  better,"  said  Lawrence. 

He  untied  the  bundle  with  leisurely  fingers. 
That  bundle,  which  was  less  than  an  inch  in  thick- 
ness, displayed  at  once  to  the  expert  the  extreme 
ordinariness  of  the  Five  Towns  cause  celebre  —  after- 
ward to  become  famous  in  legal  circles  in  the  same 
manner  as  a  strange  variation  of  a  malady  becomes 
famous  in  medical  circles.  At  the  top  of  the  bundle 
was  a  minor  and  shorter  bundle  of  letters  from  agents 
and  from  Bradwells,  Phyllis's  solicitors;  and  as 
Lawrence  lifted  this  It  disclosed  a  whitish  oblong 
on  the  gray  surface  of  the  topmost  large  paper,  as 
a  picture  removed  from  a  wall  leaves  its  trace  be- 
hind. The  black  dust  of  the  Five  Towns  had  al- 
ready begun  to  settle  on  the  early  stages  of  Ridware 
V.  Ridware.  Lawrence  idly  turned  over  one  by  one 
the  citation,  the  petition,  the  answer  of  Phyllis 
denying  the  allegations  and  her  affidavit  In  support; 
the  answer  of  Emery  Greatbatch  also  in  denial, 
and  his  affidavit;  Phyllis's  petition  for  alimony 
pendente  lite;  his  own  answer  to  that  petition  with 
an  affidavit;  the  order  commanding  Lawrence  to 
pay  her  a  pound  a  week  during  the  continuance  of 


268  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

the  proceedings;  Phyllis's  authority  to  Bradwells  to 
receive  this  money  on  her  behalf;  an  opinion  of 
counsel  on  the  whole  case,  with  a  marked  fee  of  one 
pound  three  and  sixpence;  a  note  of  the  evidence 
of  the  landlady  and  of  her  servant;  a  note  of  his  own 
evidence;  a  copy  of  his  marriage  certificate;  and  a 
few  other  papers.  There  were  no  summonses  to 
amend,  or  for  further  particulars  —  none  of  those 
indications  of  carelessness  or  of  perversity  on  the 
one  side  or  the  other  which  too  frequently  disfigure 
the  records  of  such  cases.  The  essential  excellence 
of  the  principles  which  govern  contentious  pro- 
cedure In  English  law  stood  plainly  revealed.  To 
Lawrence's  trained  eye  the  simplicity  and  the 
despatch  which  distinguished  the  affair  were  almost 
startling.  Hitherto  unfamiliar  with  the  working 
of  the  matrimonial  courts,  he  too,  in  common  with 
the  laity,  had  vaguely  imagined  that  a  divorce  could 
not  be  obtained  without  an  exaggerated  expenditure 
of  time,  patience,  and  money.  But  Pennington  had 
informed  him,  with  the  welghtlness  of  authority 
which  was  Pennington's,  that  the  decree  nisi  would 
follow  within  six  months  of  the  petition,  and  that 
the  total  costs  would  probably  not  exceed  fifty 
pounds. 

He  could  have  wished  the  period  longer  ;  the  mere 
thought   of  the    trial  Itself  made    his    heart    beat. 

"Here's  the  draft  brief,"   said  Pennington,  de- 


DEATH  269 

positing  the  blue  sheets,  and  recapturing  the  con- 
tents of  the  bundle,  which  he  carefully  tied  up  in 
their  original  order.  "You  might  just  see  if  I've 
missed  a  point." 

That  Pennington  should  have  missed  a  point  was 
a  wild,  mad  supposition:  but  he  was  not  the  man  to 
leave  the  least  loophole  for  inimical  chance.  More- 
over the  fear  of  Cyples  was  before  him,  despite  the 
manifest  impossibility  of  even  Cyples  himself  doing 
anything  with  such  a  case.  So  Lawrence  perused 
anew  the  curt  and  artless  annals  of  his  domestic 
misfortune. 

"That's  all  right,  I  think,"  he  observed. 

Pennington  smiled  confidently. 

"I  can't  imagine  why  they  should  waste  their 
money  in  fighting,"  said  Pennington.  "Unless 
of  course  Greatbatch  hopes  somehow  to  save  his 
face  at  the  school.  But  anyhow  he's  bound  to  lose 
his  situation." 

"Yes." 

"I  wonder  he  hasn't  been  asked  to  resign  already, 
Pennington   continued.     "By  the   way  I   shall   tell 
agents  not  to  mark  the  brief  more  than  three  guineas 
and  a  guinea  for  conference.     A  case  like  this  con- 
ducts itself,  don't  you  think?" 

"Certainly,"  Lawrence  concurred  absently.  He 
was  conceiving  all  the  odiousness  of  the  trial,  and 
the  remarks  which  would  be  made  to  him  in  the 


270  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

Five  Towns  upon  his  return  from  it.  So  far,  by  ex- 
traordinary good  fortune,  not  a  single  acquaintance 
had  so  much  as  referred  even  in  the  most  casual 
and  distant  way  to  his  calamity.  But  then  the 
case  was  still  obscure.  When  the  Press  Association 
had  telegraphed  down  a  verbatim  report  of  the 
hearing,  to  be  published  in  the  extra-special  of  the 
enterprising  Signal  and  read  by  the  entire  popu- 
lation of  the  Five  Towns,  he  might  expect  to  be  a 
man  doomed  to  hear  personal  comments. 

In  the  outer  office  Gater,  who  had  surreptitiously 
visited  the  street  to  buy  a  copy  of  the  early  edition 
of  the  Signal,  was  searching  the  newspaper  for 
an  item  which  peculiarly  interested  him.  Gater, 
stricken  down  in  the  first  flush  of  youth  by  the  fever 
of  photography  had  decided  to  sell  his  high-geared 
bicycle  in  order  that  he  might  become  the  possessor 
of  a  Brownie  camera  before  his  holiday  commenced 
in  the  following  week;  and  he  had  accordingly  sent 
an  advertisement  of  the  bicycle  to  the  Signal. 
He  examined  in  vain  the  serried  columns  of  private 
advertisements  on  page  two  of  the  only  daily  organ 
published  in  the  Five  Towns.  His  renowned 
bicycle  was  decidedly  not  among  the  articles  for 
sale  or  exchange.  Then  at  last  he  traced  it  in  the 
unclassified  "late"  advertisements  on  the  news  page, 
side  by  side  with  the  "stop-press"  blank  space.     He 


DEATH  271 

passed  the  paper  to  Clowes  and  demanded  the  opinion 
of  Clowes  as  to  the  comparative  efficacy  of  the  news 
page  and  the  regular  advertisement  page  in  the  sell- 
ing of  second-hand  bicycles.  Clowes,  the  day  being 
the  slack  morrow  of  Bank  Holiday,  took  the  oppor- 
tunity to  read  all  the  news  in  detail. 

"What  ho!"  Clowes  dramatically  murmured, 
after  a  time,  and  his  eye  rested  on  a  particular 
spot. 

"Well.^"  demanded  Gater,  perceiving  that  Clowes 
had  encountered  something  of  uncommon  piquancy. 

"What'st  think  of  this?"  said  Clowes,  pointing 
with  a  thick  and  Inky  finger.  "No.  Not  that. 
The  next  paragraph." 

And,  Gater,  having  read,  whistled  cautiously. 

Clowes  fidgetted  for  a  few  seconds.  Lawrence 
and  Pennington  could  be  heard  talking  through 
half  open  doors. 

"Should  you  go  and  tell  them?"  Clowes  ven- 
tured. It  111  becomes  a  man  of  forty-five  to  ask 
advice  of  a  boy,  and  Clowes  did  not  often  ask  advice 
of  Gater.  That  he  should  have  done  so  now  showed 
that  he  was  agitated  out  of  his  usual  self. 

"Aye!"  said  Gater. 

And  Clowes,  swollen  with  the  importance  of  that 
which  he  had  discovered,  and  absolutely  unable  to 
postpone  for  another  moment  the  pleasure  of  com- 
municating it  to  his  superiors,  marched  with  false 


272  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

nonchalance  to  Lawrence's  room,  tapped  at  the 
door,  and  entered.  The  solicitor  and  the  articled 
clerk  ceased  talking  as  Clowes  glanced  from  one 
to  the  other. 

"Perhaps  you  haven't  seen  this,"  he  said  gruffly, 
handing  the  paper  to  Pennington  and  indicating 
the  item.     Pennington  read. 

"Well,  well!"  Pennington  coughed  and  gave  the 
paper  to  Lawrence. 

Lawrence  read:  "We  regret  to  hear  of  the  sudden 
decease  of  Mr.  Emery  Greatbatch,  science  master 
at  the  Oldcastle  Middle  School.  Mr.  Greatbatch, 
who  we  understand  had  been  in  indifferent  health 
for  some  time,  succumbed  to  a  hemorrhage  in  the 
base  of  the  brain  on  Sunday  last." 

Clowes,  his  effect  duly  made,  left  the  room  again, 
abandoning  the  newspaper.  Lawrence  remained 
silent. 

"Why!"  said  Pennington.  "I  scarcely  knew  he 
was  111." 

Lawrence  swung  round  on  his  chair,  and,  resting 
his  chin  on  one  hand,  stared  out  of  the  window. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  he  quietly.  "I  knew  he  was  ill. 
At  least  I'd  heard  so." 

"Well,"  Pennington  added.  "It  makes  no  differ- 
ence to  us."  He  hurried  away  and  in  an  instant 
returned  with  the  indispensable  Dixon. 

"Yes,"  he  said  in  his  cold,  calm,  assured   voice, 


DEATH  273 

when  he  had  consulted  the  index.  "Here  it  is. 
Page  one  hundred  and  ten.  We've  simply  got  to 
apply  to  have  his  name  struck  out;  that's  all." 

And  he  shut  the  book  with  a  snap,  as  though  he 
was  shutting  the  lid  on  Emery  Greatbatch's  coffin, 
and  blotting  him  out  forever  from  the  recollection 
of  men.  When  Pennington  had  a  case  in  hand,  a 
death  or  so  was  not  to  be  allowed  to  interfere  with 
its  normal  course. 

"I'll  write  to  agents  at  once,"  said  Pennington, 
and  he  did  write  to  agents  at  once. 

Lawrence  stared  a  long  time  through  the  dusty 
window  at  the  brown  wall  of  the  manufactory  oppo- 
site and  the  sound  of  the  Wakes  increased  in  his 
unheeding  ears.  Clowes  departed  for  the  day,  and 
then  Pennington  —  with  a  shutting  of  drawers  and 
rattling  of  keys.  And  then  Lawrence  heard  a  voice 
saying  sharply  to  Gater: 

"Is  Mr.  Ridware  still  here?" 

It  was  the  voice  of  Charles  Fearns. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Gater. 

"Well,  if  you've  copied  your  letters  and  done 
everything,  you  can  go.  I'll  lock  up,  or  Mr.  Rid- 
ware will." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  in  astonished  tones  from  Gater, 
who  did  not  delay  two  seconds. 

Charles  Fearns  came  into  Lawrence's  room,  carry- 
ing a    bundle   of   papers.     The   two   men   glanced 


274  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

at  each  other,  not  with  hostility,  but  yet  sus- 
piciously. 

"Oh!  You're  here,  Ridware.  I  want  to  have  a 
chat  with  you." 

Fearns  shut  the  door,  and  stood  where  Pennington 
had  stood,  at  the  back  of  the  desk,  ignoring  the  chair 
upon  which  sat  such  clients  as  Lawrence  had  to 
interview.  He  had  not  much  changed  during  the 
mysterious  weeks  that  had  elapsed  since  the  flight 
of  his  family.  It  is  rarely  that  suffering  other  than 
physical  alters  the  appearance,  especially  in  a  man; 
and  Fearns  bore  himself  well.  His  health  was  always 
excellent.  But  his  eye  and  his  demeanour  were  not 
as  they  once  were.  He  had  become  both  defiant 
and  sullen  at  the  same  time.  Everybody  noticed 
it,  and  everybody  drew  conclusions  Exactly  what 
had  happened  no  one  knew,  and  particularly  no  one 
in  Fearns's  own  office.  The  sole  authorized  infor- 
mation was  that  Mrs.  Fearns  and  the  children  were 
spending  the  summer  at  Sandgate,  and  that  Fearns 
was  living  at  home  with  one  servant  and  the  gar- 
dener. Rumour  stated  that  an  action  for  divorce 
was  in  progress  against  him  but  Fearns's  clerks  had 
no  knowledge  of  such  an  action.  And  Bradwell's 
clerks  —  Cyples  was  understood  to  be  acting  for 
Mrs.  Fearns  —  did  not  satisfactorily  respond  to 
curious  catechlsts.  The  towns  of  Hanbridge  and  Bur- 
sley  were  greatly  perplexed  and  pleasantly  excited 


DEATH  275 

by  the  prospect  of  disclosures.  Meanwhile  Fea  rns  at- 
tended to  his  practice  with  unprecedented  diligence. 
Occasionally  he  went  to  the  Turk's  Head  or  to  his  club 
and  played  cards,  or  talked  with  a  new,  reserved  air. 
He  and  Cyples  seemed  to  be  as  friendly  as  usual. 

"Yes?"  said  Lawrence. 

"Yes,"  Fearns  said,  "I  want  to  have  a  talk  with 
you.     Look  at  that." 

He  violently  pitched  the  bundle  of  papers  onto 
Lawrence's  desk.  Lawrence,  without  moving,  read 
the  endorsement:  "  Fearns  v.  Fearns.  Copy  petition 
for  divorce. "  The  facts  were  that  an  action  had  been 
commenced  by  Mrs,  Fearns  immediately  after  her 
departure,  that  the  correspondence  between  Fearns 
and  his  London  agents  had  been  entirely  written 
from,  and  addressed  to,  his  private  house,  and  that 
Fearns  had  arranged  with  Cyples  to  maintain  an 
absolute  secrecy. 

"I  see,"  said  Lawrence,  nodding  his  head  and 
lowering  the  corners  of  his  mouth  to  express  a  proud 
scorn  of  his  employer.  Never  had  the  matter  been 
mentioned  between  them.  He  had  heard  nothing 
whatever  from  Mrs.  Fearns,  and  though  he  had  by 
no  means  forgotten  her  entreaty  to  him  to  talk 
sense  to  Fearns,  he  had  not  even  attempted  to  broach 
the  subject;  latterly,  preoccupied  by  his  own  affairs, 
he  had  ceased  to  think  about  other  people's  troubles 
and  interests. 


276  \^^0M  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

*'  Read  the  petition,  will  you  ? "  Fearns  requested, 
moving  his  feet  nervously  on  the  bare  floor,  but 
otherwise  showing  no  sign  of  confusion. 

Lawrence  obeyed,  glancing  also  at  other  docu- 
ments and  for  the  first  time  knew  precisely  what  had 
occurred  in  the  Fearns  household  on  the  night  before 
Mrs.  Fearns  sent  for  him.  He  had  vaguely  guessed 
the  truth,  but  nevertheless  the  detailed  revelation 
of  it  shocked,  offended,  and  disgusted  him.  After 
the  perusal  he  could  not  persuade  himself  to  look 
Fearns  in  the  face,  and  he  kept  his  eyes  on  the  desk, 
blushing. 

"You  grasp  the  situation.'"'     Fearns  demanded. 

"Yes,"  said  Lawrence  gruffly. 

"Now,  you  went  and  saw  my  wife  before  she  left.'*" 

"Who  told  you  that.'"'  Lawrence  challenged  his 
employer  in  a  voice  suddenly  angry  and  menacing. 
He  did  not  care  a  fig  for  Fearns,  and  Fearns  might 
be  as  furious  as  he  chose.  Fearns,  however,  replied 
with  easy,  diplomatic  self-control. 

"Cyples  told  me.  I  only  mention  it  because  my 
wife  likes  you.  She  has  a  great  belief  in  your 
opinion,  and  the  proof  of  it  is  that  she  sent  for  you 
that  night." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,  Mr.  Fearns,"  said 
Lawrence  coldly.  "But  supposing  she  has.'*  What 
then.?" 

"Ridware,    this    action    can't    go   on!"     Fearns 


DEATH  277 

cried.  "It  can't  go  on.  It  has  got  to  be  stopped. 
I'll  do  anything  —  anything.  But  it's  got  to  be 
stopped."  He  spoke  passionately,  and  Lawrence 
startled  into  gazing  up  at  him,  saw  that  his  mouth 
was  twisted  out  of  Its  usual  shape,  and  that  there  was 
a  white  patch,  from  which  the  blood  had  been  forced, 
across  the  bridge  of  his  nose. 

"It's  bound  to  go  on,"  Lawrence  answered. 

"Don't  say  that,  man!  I  know  all  you  can  tell 
me.  I  don't  mean  to  offer  any  excuses  of  any  sort. 
Nobody  on  this  earth  can  explain  to  me  anything 
that  I  don't  feel.  I'm  speaking  to  you  now  with 
perfect  freedom,  remember.  I  respect  you.  You're 
a  decent  fellow.  I  meant  to  come  to  you  a  long 
time  ago,  but  I  couldn't  make  up  my  mind.  For 
one  thing  I  couldn't  believe  that  my  wife  would 
persist  in  the  action." 

But  what  else "  Lawrence  began. 

I  know  —  I  know,"  Fearns  stopped  him  Im- 
periously. "You're  going  to  ask  me  what  else 
can  she  do.  Well,  she  can  do  something  else.  She 
can  stop  It,  and  come  back  to  me." 

"That's  not  argument." 

"To  hell  with  argument!"  Fearns  shouted,  and 
then  he  continued  in  a  low,  controlled  voice:  "Just 
think  of  the  trial,  man!  I  needn't  put  the  dots  on 
the  i's.  Think  of  the  scandal.  Think  of  what  our 
lives  will  be  afterward." 


278  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

Lawrence,  while  hating  himself  for  it,  could  not 
resist  the  obvious:  "You  ought  to  have  thought  of 
that  before,  Mr.  Fearns." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  snapped  Fearns.  There  was  a 
pause. 

"Why  don't  you  go  and  see  your  wife.?"  Lawrence 
enquired. 

Fearns  approached  closer  to  the  desk,  and  looked 
down  at  Lawrence,  who  met  his  gaze  with  a  chill 
stare.  "Because  I  daren't,"  he  whispered.  "Be- 
cause I  daren't.  I  haven't  got  the  pluck.  And 
Cyples  won't  do  anything.  Now  look  here,  Rid- 
ware.  My  wife  likes  you  very  much.  So  do  L 
She'll  listen  to  you  if  she'll  listen  to  anybody.  I 
want  you  to  go  down  and  see  her,  and  explain  things 
to  her.  Make  her  understand  that  the  action  really 
can't  go  on.  I  know  you  can  succeed  if  you  try. 
And  listen!  I  want  a  partner  in  this  business. 
If  you'll  go  down  and  see  Alma,  I'll  give  you  a 
partnership." 

Lawrence  was  momentarily  frightened  by  his 
terrible  earnestness,  and  he  pushed  back  his  chair 
so  as  to  be  a  little  farther  from  Fearns's  face.  Fearns 
also  drew  away. 

"You  are  mad,"  Lawrence  muttered  in  a  melan- 
choly, hopeless  tone. 

"Then  you  won't.?" 

"Do  you  want  my  opinion.?" 


DEATH  279 

"That's  just  what  I  do  want." 

"Well,  I  think  your  wife  is  quite  right  and  that 
you  are  quite  wrong.  Why  shouldn't  the  action 
go  on.''  It  will  be  awful,  of  course.  But  it  will  not 
be  so  awful  as  your  wife's  return  to  you  would  be. 
As  to  the  scandal,  that  is  nothing.  Anyhow,  it 
won't  touch  your  wife.  Your  wife's  return  is  im- 
possible. I  thoroughly  agree  with  everything  she 
said  to  me.  I'm  sorry  for  you,  in  a  way — that 
I  must  say  —  but  not  very  much.  And  the  trial 
after  all  is  a  very  little  thing.  It  won't  last  more 
than  half  an  hour  or  an  hour.  Of  course  it  isn't 
certain  that  your  wife  will  get  a  divorce,  but  it's 
certain  that  she'll  get  at  least  a  judicial  separation. 
Then  everything  will  be  over  and  done  with.  You'll 
each  of  you  know  where  you  stand,  and  the  scandal 
will  soon  die  down." 

"I'm  thinking  of  my  daughter,"  said  Fearns 
solemnly. 

"I  know  you  are,"  said  Lawrence,  "and  do  you 
suppose  that  your  wife  hasn't  also  thought  of  your 
daughter.''  Do  you  suppose  you  are  the  only  person 
who  thinks  of  your  daughter?  Bad  as  the  trial 
will  be,  it  will  better  than  anything  else,  even  for 
your  daughter." 

"Then  you  won't  go.'"' 

"I  will  not." 

A  long  silence  followed.     Then  Fearns  gathered  up 


28o  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

his  papers  and  disappeared.  Soon  afterwards  Law- 
rence, who  had  resumed  his  gaze  at  the  window, 
heard  him  leave  the  building. 

Lawrence  sat  still  for  many  minutes,  and  then, 
having  shut  the  window  and  covered  his  desk  with 
its  dust  sheet,  he  made  a  circuit  of  the  deserted  rooms, 
found  the  outer  keys  on  their  hook,  and  departed, 
and  soon  found  himself  in  the  multitudinous  turmoil 
of  the  Wakes.  The  fair  made  no  impression  on  him 
whatever,  beyond  a  vague  assault  on  his  ears.  He 
moved  through  the  crowds  without  noticing  them, 
a  heavy  and  preoccupying  weight  on  his  heart,  and 
presently  he  turned  into  the  Coffee  House  for 
lunch.  He  had  given  up  his  house  and  his  singular 
cousin  at  Toft  End,  discovering  them  both  to  be 
intolerable,  and  had  taken  rooms  at  Cauldon,  a  suburb 
of  Hanbridge  between  Hanbrldge  and  Knype. 
Thither  he  had  transported  his  books,  which  lay 
unshelved  in  forlorn  mountain  ranges  on  the  floors. 
While  he  consumed  a  tasteless  meal  off  a  marble- 
topped  table  in  the  Coffee  House,  served  by  a  bounc- 
ing, red-skinned,  and  fluffy  creature  with  heavy 
gestures,  there  moved  over  the  deeps  of  his  mind 
trifling  cloudlets  of  thought  concerning  his  passage 
with  Fearns.  If  he  had  been  In  Fearns's  room,  in- 
stead of  Fearns  in  his,  the  interview  might  have  been 
less  summary;  he  was  much  more  at  home  in  his  own 
room,  entrenched  in  his  own  chair  behind  his  own 


DEATH  281 

desk.  Fearns  was  a  fool:  Fearns  had  proved  that. 
He  must  have  been  at  his  wits'  end.  Fancy  his 
offering  a  partnership!  Fancy  his  hoping  that 
Lawrence  could  be  tempted  by  such  an  offer  to 
perform  any  social  act  which  he  would  not  otherwise 
have  performed.  The  idea  was  comic  to  Lawrence. 
Fearns  had  been  immensely  excited:  he  could  under- 
stand that.  And  yet,  despite  the  circumstances, 
to  see  Fearns  an  excited  and  pathetic  suppliant  was 
sufficiently  astounding. 

He  flattered  himself  that  he  had  duly  appreciated 
the  conversation  with  Fearns,  and  Fearns's  bearing; 
but  he  had  not.  He  had  merely  assisted  at  the 
episode  in  a  kind  of  dream,  all  his  essential  faculties 
of  emotion  being  monopolized  by  the  news  of  the 
death  of  Emery  Greatbatch.  It  was  in  the  far- 
reaching  sentimental  consequences  of  that  death 
that  his  mind  was,  half  unconsciously,  absorbed. 
A  tremendous  and  irrational  pity,  a  pity  that  was 
at  once  splendid  and  futile,  rolled  into  his  heart 
like  a  flood  and  took  possession  of  it.  For  the  first 
time  during  months  he  did  not  feel  bitter.  Under 
the  urgent  guidance  of  an  instinct  which  he  could 
not  explain  and  which  intellectually  he  resented, 
he  left  the  Coffee  House  pretending  that  he  was  going 
home  to  his  rooms,  but  fully  aware  that  he  should  go 
to  quite  a  different  house.  The  awful  music  of  the 
Wakes  crashed  down  upon  him  from  a  dozen  round- 


282  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

abouts;  two  feathered  girls  squirted  water  Into  his 
ear  to  prove  that  carnival  reigned;  the  odour  of  all 
things  that  would  be  eaten  last  hy  men  dying  on  a 
raft  arrived  at  his  nostrils  from  the  stalls  that  lined 
the  packed  pavements.  He  went  along  Holborn 
unnotlcing,  colliding  with  people,  giving  bumps  and 
receiving  them.  And,  having  reached  a  certain 
corner,  he  escaped  out  of  the  turmoil  Into  a  street 
which  led  to  Sproston  Street.  And  Sproston  Street, 
with  Its  little  neat  house,  and  Its  view  of  the  dignified, 
sombre  back  of  the  Mechanics'  Institution,  was  prim 
and  silent  as  a  cathedral  close. 

He  assured  himself  that  he  was  a  fool,  as  big  a 
fool  as  Fearns;  but  the  pity  In  his  heart,  awakened 
by  the  power  of  his  Imagination  drove  him  forward. 
At  length  he  knocked  on  a  grained  front  door 
numbered  i6  in  old-fashioned  green  letters. 

A  very  young,  blithe,  unfinished  servant  maid 
answered  his  faint  summons. 

"Is  Mrs.  Ridware  in.'"'  he  asked  in  a  murmur. 

"Oh  yes,  sir,"  said  the  maid  cordially.  "Will 
you  step  in.'"' 

He  stepped  Into  the  narrow  hall,  with  its  empty 
hat  stand  of  varnished  pitchplne  and  its  reproduc- 
tions of  Sir  Edwin  Landseer. 

"In  the  sitting  room,  sir,"  the  maid  said.  She 
was  fresh  from  a  neighbouring  colliery  village,  and 
her  sole  object  was  to  be  agreeable  In  her  new  ex- 


DEATH  283 

alted  sphere.  Her  ignorance  of  her  calling  was  mag- 
nificent. She  roughly  pushed  open  the  door  of  the 
sitting  room  and,  with  a  hospitable  smile  to  Law- 
rence announced  loudly:     "A  gentleman,  mum." 

Lawrence  entered  the  room,  which,  with  its 
horsehair,  convex  mahogany,  wax  flowers,  and  win- 
dow vases,  had  not  apparently  altered  since  he 
entered  it  years  and  years  ago  to  woo  Phyllis. 
Phyllis  and  her  mother  were  seated  near  together  at 
a  table,  sewing  at  something  black.  At  any  rate 
Phyllis  was  sewing;  he  saw  the  thimble  on  her  finger; 
Mrs.  Capewell  held  a  large  pair  of  scissors. 

Both  women  looked  at  him,  and  he  looked  at 
them,  and  not  a  word  was  said.  Phyllis  appeared 
to  be  in  good  health,  and  her  face  had  that  mys- 
terious expression  which  once  he  had  understood 
but  understood  no  more.  She  was  like  a  strange 
woman  to  him. 

"I  was  very  sorry,"  he  began.  But  he  did  not 
know  what  he  had  meant  to  say.  As  a  fact,  he  had 
never  defined  his  intention. 

Mrs.  Capewell's  winking  eyes  dropped  tears  be- 
hind her  gold-rimmed  spectacles.  "I'd  better  leave 
you,"  the  old  lady  muttered,  rising. 

"Stay  where  you  are,  mother.  Do,  please!" 
Phyllis  commanded  her  sharply.  "What  do  you 
want,  Lawrence.''  What  have  you  come  for.''" 
Her  voice  was  frigid,  scornful,  acrimonious:  a  voice 


284  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

he  knew  well,  out  of  several  voices  which  she  pos- 
sessed.    He  cursed  himself. 

"I  read  about  the  death,"  he  recommenced,  crest- 
fallen,  striving  to  conceal  his   anger. 

*'Do  you  think  I  want  your  sympathy?"  Phyllis 
asked,  and  her  tones  were  clear  and  terrible  against 
the  background  of  her  mother's  smothered  sobbing. 
"Do  you  think  I  want  your  sympathy,  now.f* 
You've  slandered  me.  And  you've  slandered  Emery 
Greatbatch.  And  now  he's  dead  you  think  you'll 
get  me  back,  do  you  ?  What  if  it  was  you  that  really 
killed  him.f"  Why  didn't  you  ask  me  plainly  if  I 
was  guilty  before  you  sent  for  Mark.?  Go  on  with 
your  precious  divorce  case,  and  you'll  see.  But 
I  don't  want  your  sympathy." 

"Then  there's  nothing  more  to  be  said,"  he  replied 
with  forced  bravado.     He  was  blushing. 

"I  should  think  there  wasn't.  Mother,  do  stop 
crying,  please." 

He  retreated.  It  had  been  an  enterprise  utterly 
disastrous.  Why  had  he  undertaken  it.''  Had  he 
not  reason  to  know  that  always  she  would  be  in- 
calculable and  inhuman.?  She  could  not  be  other- 
wise. When  he  emerged  again  into  the  street,  there 
was  nothing  in  his  heart  but  hot  shame  and 
bitterness. 


CHAPTER  IX 

MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION 

LAWRENCE  did  not  greatly  love  London. 
It  appealed  to  his  imagination,  but  in  a 
sinister  way.  To  him  it  was  the  city  of 
vast  and  restless  melancholy.  And  though  there 
was  nothing  of  the  sentimental  in  his  composition, 
he  despised  the  facile  trick  of  fancy  which  attributes 
to  cities,  heroically,  the  joys  and  griefs  of  the  un- 
heroic  individuals  composing  them;  London  did 
nevertheless  impress  him  painfully  as  an  environ- 
ment peculiarly  favourable  to  the  intensification 
of  sorrow.  Whenever  he  went  to  London  it  seemed 
to  him  to  be  the  home  of  a  race  sad,  hurried,  and 
preoccupied;  the  streets  were  filled  with  people 
who  had  not  a  moment  to  spare,  and  whose  thoughts 
were  turned  inward  upon  their  own  anxious  solici- 
tudes, people  who  must  inevitably  die  before  they 
had  begun  to  live,  and  to  whom  the  possession  of 
their  souls  in  contemplation  would  always  be  an 
impossibility.  The  unique  and  poetic  grandeur 
of  the  theatre  which  the  character  of  this  race  had 
created  for  the  scene  of  its  woes  only  added  to  the 

28s 


286  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

situation  the  poignancy  of  visual  beauty.     Instead 
of  lightening,  it  increased  the  burden. 

On  a  Tuesday  in  November  Lawrence  was  walk- 
ing down  Chancery  Lane  at  about  a  quarter  to  ten. 
The  arctic  dusk  which  broods  continually  over 
London  days  from  October  to  March  was  neither 
brighter  nor  darker  than  it  usually  is  on  such  a  damp, 
muddy  morning.  In  response  to  a  telegram  re- 
ceived on  the  previous  evening,  Lawrence  had 
arrived  at  Euston  at  five  a.m.  by  a  mail  train, 
convoying  the  landlady  from  Manifold  with  her 
indispensable  testimony,  and  the  landlady's  servant. 
These  he  had  desposited  in  a  bedroom  at  Anderton's 
Hotel  in  Fleet  Street,  classic  resort  of  witnesses  under 
subpoena;  and,  relieved  of  them,  he  had  spent  the 
miserable  hours  before  dawn  in  dozing,  reading, 
and  drinking  tea.  He  had  been  in  Holywell 
Street  when  the  bookshops  opened,  and  had  there 
lost  for  a  few  minutes  the  spleen  which  had  pre- 
vented him  from  rushing  directly  to  Mark's  studio 
in  Chelsea  for  breakfast.  He  had  walked  several 
miles,  but  he  felt  no  fatigue,  nor  was  he  sleepy. 
His  brain  whirled  in  the  growing  activity  of  appre- 
hension and  suspense.  At  the  huge  antique  gate- 
way which  leads  westward  out  of  Chancery  Lane 
Into  the  warrens  of  the  law,  he  hesitated,  partly 
from  a  provincial's  geographical  uncertainty,  but 
more    from    his    instinctive   reluctance    to    take   a 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  287 

decisive  step.  He  looked  again  at  Chancery  Lane, 
and  suddenly  perceived  that  London,  which  he  had 
but  just  seen  dead,  was  fully  awake;  he  had 
watched  the  first  omnibus  of  all  the  omnibuses 
pass  swingingly  along  the  twilight  of  the  Strand? 
a  strangely  moving  spectacle,  and  lo!  now  the 
streets  were  full  of  omnibuses.  Then  he  went  into 
the  gateway. 

Instantly  he  was  In  a  different  world,  a  world 
like  nothing  else.  Here,  hidden  away  in  ten  thou- 
sand lairs  behind  a  chaotic  jumble  of  fagades  In  all 
styles  from  venerable  Tudor  to  the  ludicrous  terra 
cotta  of  late  nineteenth  century,  the  least  produc- 
tive and  yet  the  most  necessary  of  professions  prac- 
tised Its  mysteries,  flourishing  on  the  Imperfections 
of  humanity,  taking  and  never  giving,  destroying 
and  never  creating,  concerned  with  neither  beauty 
nor  Intellect,  eternally  busy  with  nothing  but  the 
altercations  of  dishonesty  and  avarice,  the  appor- 
tionment of  gain,  the  division  of  amassed  property, 
the  pilgrimages  of  money,  and  the  neat  conclusion 
of  disasters  In  proper  form.  Round  about  lawns 
and  fountained  gardens,  trim  alleys,  spacious  squares, 
and  obscure  courtyards,  this  singular  profession, 
which  mankind  has  united  to  curse,  to  revile,  and 
to  honour,  laboured  amid  dirt  and  old  usuages,  often 
in  bizarre  and  foolish  raiment,  at  operations  some- 
times useful,  sometimes  of  an  Inconceivable  fatuity, 


288  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

but  Invariably  attended  by  rite  and  ceremony. 
From  Chancery  Lane  to  Sardinia  Street,  from  Hol- 
born  to  the  Embankment,  justice,  a  commodity 
unknown  to  nature,  was  retailed  with  astonishing 
results.  Precedent  reigned;  and  the  whole  popu- 
lation was  engaged  in  a  desperate  battle  for  the 
sacred  legal  principle  that  that  which  has  been 
must  continue  to  be,  no  matter  what  the  cost. 

But  Lawrence,  who  saw  law  like  a  lawyer,  ex- 
perienced merely  the  sensations  of  a  country  solic- 
itor who  is  on  the  border  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields. 

Before  No.  2,  of  a  terrace  of  houses  newly  built 
in  stone  he  stopped  and  examined  the  medley  of 
names  which  were  painted  on  either  side  of  the  main 
doorway.  A  score  of  separate  but  similar  activities 
performed  their  functions  in  the  house;  and  there 
were  nearly  a  score  of  houses  in  the  terrace,  and 
many  scores  of  such  terraces,  courts  and  squares 
in  that  mysterious  and  formidable  quarter  of  Lon- 
don. At  last  his  eye  encountered  the  words: 
"Basement.  Messrs.  Apreece  &  Co:  Solicitors. 
Commissioners  for  oaths."  And  he  descended 
by  means  of  a  dark  flight  of  steps  under  the  porch 
to  the  cellarage.  At  the  end  of  a  long  passage 
an  electric  light  was  burning  at  an  open  door, 
and  he  read:  "Messrs.  Apreece  &  Co.  Enquiries." 
He  went  forward,  feeling  as  he  had  known  he  should 
feel  when  the  moment  arrived,  extremely  self-con- 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  280 

scious.  He  was  the  traditional  figure  of  ridicule, 
the  deceived  husband,  and  he  could  not  for  his  life 
behave  as  if  nothing  had  happened  to  him.  He 
entered  the  enquiry  office;  it  was  untenanted;  but 
Lawrence  perceived  at  once,  from  its  size,  from  the 
number  of  desks,  and  the  countless  rows  of  letter- 
files  and  copy-letter-books  on  the  walls,  that  the 
business  of  Messrs.  Apreece  &  Company,  though 
transacted  in  a  cellar,  was  on  a  scale  quite  diilerent 
from  that  of  Charles  Fearns.  Apreeces  had  only 
recently  become  agents  to  Fearns;  they  happened 
to  be  connections  of  his  deceased  partner,  and  little 
was  known  of  them  in  the  office  at  Hanbridge,  except 
that  they  were  sharp  and  reliable  people,  who  de- 
livered their  annual  bill  of  costs  with  disconcerting 
promptitude. 

Two  sallow-faced  youths  strolled  simultaneously 
into  the  enquiry  office  through  another  door.  One 
of  them  was  sheathing  his  wristbands  in  cream-laid 
note  paper;  and  they  both  seemed  to  regard 
Lawrence  with  a  certain  frigidity  of  indifference. 

"My  name  is  Ridware,"  said  Lawrence  aggres- 
sively, "I'm  from  Mr.  Fearns.  Will  you  please 
tell  whoever  is  looking  after  Ridware  v.  Ridware 
that  I'm  here." 

The  two  clerks  looked  at  each  other  vaguely. 

"Ridware  v.  Ridware,"  one  of  them  repeated 
dreamily,  and  turned  to  obey.     At  that  moment 


290  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

a  tall,  full-bodied,  youngish  man,  wearing  a  frock 
coat  and  a  blue  Melton  overcoat,  with  a  silk  hat 
far  at  the  back  of  his  head,  rushed  into  the  room 
like  an  incarnation  of  energy. 

"Look  here,  Collins!"  he  addressed  the  clerk 
who  was  leaving.  *' You've  done  a  nice  useful 
sort  of  thing.  You've  arranged  two  conferences 
for  me  at  ten  o'clock.  How  the  devil  can  I  be  at 
both  of  them.?" 

"This  is  Mr.  Ridware,  sir,"  replied  Collins, 
unmoved. 

"Ah!  Very  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Ridware, 
will  you  come  into  my  room.'"' 

And  the  man  shook  hands  with  Lawrence  in 
high,  honest,  good-humour,  smiling  and  benevolent. 
His  age  was  apparently  about  thirty.  He  was 
clearly  one  of  those  persons  who,  having  a  good 
digestion,  simple  tastes,  and  no  idle  curiosity  con- 
cerning the  secret  nature  of  things,  are  never 
afflicted  by  inexplicable  melancholy. 

"Run  round  and  get  the  conference  with  Gardener 
altered  to  ten-thirty  If  you  can,  there's  a  good 
fellow,"  said  he  to  the  younger  clerk. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Bowes." 

Lawrence  passed  In  the  wake  of  Mr.  Bowes  along 
another  electric-lit  corridor  full  of  doors  open  or 
closed,  with  glimpses  now  and  then  of  solid,  rather 
shabby  interiors.     Mr.  Bowes's  room  was  large,  and 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  291 

seemed  to  contain  more  furniture  than  the  whole 
of  Charles  Fearns's  establishment.  No  less  than 
twelve  leather-covered  chairs  were  ranged  round 
its  walls.  There  were  three  bookcases,  two  desks, 
and  a  toilette  stand  half  hidden  by  a  screen,  some 
dozens  of  lettered  tin  boxes,  and  a  cabinet  with 
pigeon  holes  for  documents.  The  carpet  was  In 
holes  under  the  principal  desk,  and  the  fire  irons 
could  not  have  cost  more  than  half  a  crown;  the 
black  and  brass  coal  box  was  also  of  the  cheapest 
description,  and  very  old;  but  the  best  coal  fizzed 
generously  in  the  grate,  and  a  new  Turkey  hearth- 
rug flanked  the  steel  fender.  All  the  lights  were 
lit.  Outside,  a  smooth  lawn  sloped  gently  up  from 
two  French  windows,  and  an  aged  keeper  of  the 
gardens,  dressed  in  an  eighteenth  century  uniform, 
was  pacing  to  and  fro  with  the  solemnity  of  a 
peacock. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Bowes.  "Make  yourself  com- 
fortable. Have  a  cigarette?  It's  pleasant  enough 
here  in  summer,  but  in  winter  It's  a  bit  off,  I  must 
admit."  He  had  taken  his  seat  at  a  desk,  and  was 
fingering  bundles  of  documents.  And  in  a  moment 
the  two  were  smoking,  and  Bowes  was  directing 
attention  to  two  legal  caricatures  from  Vanity 
Fair  which  hung  over  the  mantel-piece;  he  said 
he  had  subscribed  to  Vanity  Fair  ever  since  he 
was   married,    seven    years  ago,  and    that  he    had 


292  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

all  the  cartoons  in  a  portfolio  which  he  had  made 
himself,  but  that  these  two  were  the  gems  of  the 
collection. 

"Everything's  in  order,  I  think,"  he  went  on, 
in  the  same  tone,  untying  a  bundle  of  papers. 
"You've  got  your  witnesses  here,  of  course?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  Lawrence  replied. 

"Well,  I've  briefed  Wray.  I  told  you  I  should. 
He's  about  the  best  junior  there  is.  I've  marked 
him  five  guineas.     Couldn't  mark  him  less." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Lawrence  hastily. 

"It's  ten  to  ten  now."  Bowes  closed  a  silver 
hunter  with  a  snap.  "Suppose  we  toddle  along  to 
his  chambers.  They're  in  New  Square.  I've  got 
a  conference  for  you  at  ten."  He  spoke  with  a 
certain  amiable  casualness,  as  though  there  was 
nothing  in  the  least  unusual  in  Lawrence's  position; 
nevertheless  Lawrence  thought  he  could  detect  be- 
neath his  amiability  a  faintly  condescending  com- 
miseration, and  this  hurt  him.  But  he  considered 
himself  fortunate  in  Mr.  Bowes. 

They  climbed  up  out  of  the  earth,  Bowes  throwing 
a  word  loudly  into  the  enquiry  ofHce  as  they  passed, 
and  then  bore  southward  through  a  maze  of  alleys 
and  courts.  Bowes  stopped  under  a  Tudor  arch- 
way, where  the  cause  lists  of  the  day  were  exposed 
beneath  glass. 

"You  see  we're  third,"  said  he,  pointing. 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  293 

And  Lawrence  read: 

Probate  Divorce  and  Admiralty  Division  (Divorce) 

Before  the  President  (without  a  jury) 

Carr  v.  Carr,  Isaacsohn,  and  Dove  (part  heard) 

Simpson  v.  Simpson 

Ridware  v.  Ridware 

Smalls  V.  Smalls  and  Jackson. 

"I  see,"  said  Lawrence. 

The  sight  of  his  name,  printed  there  and  hung 
under  the  archway  for  the  world  to  peruse,  made 
him  blush.  And  Bowes,  noticing  this,  avoided  his 
eyes,  and  said  in  gay  accents :  "This  way  to  Wray," 
and  hurried  on. 

"Have  many  divorce  cases.?"  Lawrence  asked. 

"No,"  said  Bowes.  "Not  many.  I  think  I've 
had  two,  not  counting  yours,  since  I've  been  at 
Apreece's.  I'm  their  chancery  clerk,  you  know. 
At  this  present  time  I've  got  fifty-seven  chancery 
actions  all  a-blowing  and  a-growing." 

"The  dickens  you  have!"  Lawrence  exclaimed, 
impressed. 

"Yes.  Not  bad,  is  it.?  The  fact  is,  you  men  in 
the  country  don't  know  what  work  is."  He  laughed 
easily,  and  remarked,  beaming,  that  he  seldom  got 
to  his  wife  and  children  in  Fulham  Park  Gardens 
before  seven-thirty  of  a  night. 

They  ascended  a  corkscrew  staircase,  and  dis- 
covered Mr.  Wray  adjusting  his  wig  before  a  cracked 
shaving  glass  in  a  small  shabby  room  overlooking 
the  ancient  square  which  has  been  called  New  for  a 


294  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

couple  of  centuries  or  more.  The  barrister  did  not 
turn  round;  he  recognized  Bowes  through  the 
glass. 

"Bowes,"  he  said  In  a  high-pitched  voice  with 
a  slight  cockney  accent.  "You're  always  three 
minutes  too  early.  What  in  the  name  of  God  do 
you  mean  by  It?" 

He  was  a  small,  thin,  middle-aged  man,  with 
a  sand-coloured  moustache  and  graying,  scanty 
hair.  He  had  a  big  nose  and  large  eyes,  and  had 
he  been  sufficiently  famous  he  would  have  made 
an  excellent  subject  for  the  caricaturist  of  Vanity 
Fair.  But  Mr.  Wray  was  not  famous  outside  the 
law  courts.  He  had  never  "taken  silk,"  and  he 
never  would  take  It,  for  the  reason  that  he  dared 
not  accept  the  risk  which  would  be  involved  in 
abandoning  his  existing  humble  practice  and  be- 
ginning anew  on  the  loftier  and  more  perilous 
plane  of  a  king's  counsel.  At  fifty  he  remained 
a  junior;  he  worked  hard,  and  was  well  liked  by 
solicitors;  but  many  cases  at  five  guineas  apiece  are 
required  in  order  to  arrive  at  a  respectable  Income. 
And  Mr.  Wray's  face  bore  the  mark  of  decades  of 
financial  worry. 

"Sorry,  sir,"  said  Bowes,  and  introduced 
Lawrence. 

Mr.  Wray  nodded  and,  leaving  the  glass,  picked 
up  his  brief,  which  was  lying  open  on  a  desk.     It 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  295 

was  heavily  scored  in  blue  pencil.  He  neither  sat 
down  himself  nor  asked  the  others  to  sit  down. 

"Let  me  see,  Mr.  Ridware,"  he  remarked,  adjust- 
ing his  eyeglasses.     "You're  a  lawyer,  aren't  you.^" 

"I  am,"  said  Lawrence. 

"Well,  that's  something,"  he  laughed.  "You're 
sure  of  your  witnesses.     This  landlady,  now.-*" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Lawrence. 

"Because  she  seems  to  have  been  pretty  friendly 
with  what's-his-name  —  Greatbatch." 

He  stared  hard  at  Lawrence. 

"She  was,"  Lawrence  admitted.  "But  her  evi- 
dence is  perfectly  clear." 

"Her    evidence    looks    clear.     The    question    is, 

is    she  a  willing  witness.''     All  landladies  are " 

he  used  an  inconvenient  word.  "That's  my  exper- 
ience. I  know  the  race.  Is  she  a  willing 
witness  .f"' 

"I  believe  so,"  said  Lawrence. 

"She's  your  case,  this  landlady,"  proceeded  Mr. 
Wray.     "Who's  against  us,  Bowes.'"' 

"Knight,"  said  Bowes. 

"It  might  have  been  worse,"  was  Mr.  Wray's 
comment.  "He  was  drunk  last  evening.  He'll 
be  waspish,  but  I  can  deal  with  him.  Still,  if  he 
shakes  the  landlady " 

"  I  don't  see  how  he  can,"  Lawrence  ventured. 

"Suppose  she  wants  to  be  shaken.'"' 


296  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

"But  there  can't  possibly  be  any  doubtj^  said 
Lawrence  simply. 

"In  the  Divorce  Court,"  Mr.  Wray  replied, 
"there  is  always  a  doubt.  Beside,  Greatbatch's 
death  may  have  affected  the  landlady." 

The  idea  that  he  was  not  absolutely  sure  to  win 
entered  Lawrence's  mind  for  the  first  time. 

"It's  a  devilish  odd  case,"  said  Mr.  Wray. 

Lawrence  began  to  be  afraid.  Surely  it  was 
impossible  that  he  should  fail!  He  had  had  many 
apprehensions,  but  the  apprehension  of  failure  was 
not  one  of  them. 

"They're  all  devilish  odd,"  said  Mr.  Wray. 
"I  never  had  a  divorce  case  that  wasn't.  Has  your 
wife  ever  come  near  confessing  to  you,  Mr.  Rid- 
ware.?"  He  put  this  question  in  such  a  matter-of- 
fact  tone  that  the  last  remnant  of  Lawrence's  self- 
consciousness  momentarily  disappeared  as  he  gave 
a  negative. 

Mr.  Wray  seized  his  gown  from  a  chair  and  put 
it  on. 

"How  long  is  it  since  you  were  on  good  terms 
with  her.?"  he  demanded  suddenly,  struggling  with 
the  gown. 

"Good  terms?" 

"Yes.  Damn  it!  When  did  you  last  sleep 
together.'"'  He  spoke  with  impatience,  gathering 
together   his    papers.     "Now,    my   dear   good    sir, 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  297 

don't  get  startled.  That's  nothing  to  what  Knight 
may  ask  you." 

"It's  some  years  ago,"  Lawrence  replied.  It 
was  as  if  he  was  at  the  dentist's  merely  to  have  his 
teeth  scaled,  and  the  dentist  had  Informed  him  that 
a  molar  must  be  extracted.  He  abandoned  himself 
to  the  prospect  of  utter  humiliation. 

"You  never  refused  intercourse.'"' 

"No." 

"There's  no  allegation  of  conduct  conducing  to 
adultery  in  the  respondent's  answer,"  Bowes  put  In. 

"I  am  aware  of  that,"  said  the  barrister  coldly. 
"But  the  court  won't  rule  it  out  If  It  comes  up,  you 
may  bet  your  life.  You  have  to  remember,  my 
young  friends,  that  In  the  matrimonial  courts  the 
odds  are  always  on  the  respondent.  Divorces 
aren't  given  away  In  this  country.  They're  dragged 
out  of  an  unwilling  court  by  main  force.  And 
when  you've  got  your  bone,  there's  no  knowing 
if  the  King's  Proctor  won't  stroll  up  and  take  it  off 
you.  Now  Mr.  Ridware,  when  you're  in  the  box, 
keep  calm.  Leave  yourself  In  my  hands.  And 
don't  let  Knight  get  your  dander  up.  We'll  see 
what  we  can  do.  Sanders!"  He  yelled  for  his 
clerk.  "I  must  be  off.  I'm  In  Carr  v.  Carr.  You 
may  possibly  come  on  after  lunch.  If  I  have  time 
for  a  chat  with  your  precious  landlady  I'll  take  a 
look  at  her.     Good  morning  for  the  present. 


>5 


298  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

"He's  always  like  that,"  said  Bowes,  outside  on 
the  pavement.     "The  thing's  all  right." 

"Of  course,"  Lawrence  murmured.  Neverthe- 
less he  was  perturbed  by  Wray's  remark,  "We'll 
see  what  we  can  do!"  An  hour  ago  he  had  been 
so  sure  of  success  that  the  trial  had  presented  itself 
to  him  as  a  mere  unpleasant  formality.  But  now 
the  solid  ground  seemed  to  be  slipping  from  under 
his  feet. 

At  the  corner  of  Carey  Street  he  parted  from 
Bowes,  who  had  several  other  appointments.  Bowes 
appeared  to  juggle  with  conferences,  hearings,  and 
proceedings  in  chambers,  as  a  juggler  with  balls. 
It  was  arranged  where  Lawrence  might  find  him  in 
case  of  necessity. 

"You'd  better  round  up  your  witnesses  first," 
said  Bowes,  "and  then  go  Into  Court  and  stick  there. 
One  never  knows  when  a  case  won't  fall  to  pieces 
and  the  next  be  called.  Anyhow  I'll  look  you  out 
before  lunch." 

And  Bowes  hurried  smiling  away,  papers  under 
his  arm  and  his  hat  far  at  the  back  of  his  head. 

Lawrence  went  down  to  Anderton's  and  learned 
that  his  witnesses,  doubtless  urged  by  the  eagerness 
of  a  pardonable  excitement,  had  already  gone  to 
the  field  of  encounter. 

He  entered  the  Royal  Courts  of  Justice  by  the 
Carey  Street  portal,  which  is  the  professional  en- 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  299 

trance.  He  had  never  before  examined  the  immense 
gray  building  which  in  its  shapeless  plan,  its  ill- 
balanced  frontages,  its  unpretentious  situation, 
and  its  curious  fine  distinction,  illustrates  so  per- 
fectly the  English  character.  There  is  an  elaborate 
and  yet  unaffected  honesty  about  the  aspect  of  the 
law  courts  which  could  not  fail  to  inspire  confi- 
dence. Lawrence  felt  it.  With  his  exaggerated 
sensibility  to  influences  that  escape  definition,  he 
thought  vaguely  as  he  walked  up  the  steps:  "After 
all  it  is  impossible  that  I  should  be  wronged  here." 
And  he  was  accordingly  reassured.  The  official 
in  sober  blue  who  sits  forever  in  the  gate,  for  no 
other  reason  than  that  he  has  always  sat  there, 
glanced  at  Lawrence  as  he  passed  inward,  and  his 
glance  was  so  dignified  and  benignly  stern  that  he 
seemed  to  represent  in  his  own  person  the  spirit 
of  English  justice.  In  spite  of  the  rush  of  multitudes 
to  and  fro  in  the  wide  corridors  —  barristers,  solici- 
tors, clerks,  suitors,  witnesses,  quidnuncs,  and  unem- 
ployed —  the  vast  interior  had  somehow  the  hush 
and  solemnity  of  a  cathedral;  and  not  the  sight  of 
a  restaurant  in  the  obscure  distance,  with  white 
tables  gleaming  under  Gothic  shadows,  could  de- 
stroy this  impression  of  a  temple.  The  architect, 
an  imperfect  genuis,  had  certainly  conceived  a 
temple,  and  had  put  into  it  the  religion  of  his  life. 
Every  detail  of  the  austere  decoration  was  ecclesias- 


300  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

tical  in  origin,  and  showed  in  its  simple,  passionate 
sincerity  a  horror  of  the  theatrical  and  the  mere- 
tricious. As  Lawrence,  ignorant  of  the  position 
of  the  various  courts,  wandered  at  hazard  through 
the  interminable  passages,  knowing  that  he  must 
ultimately  arrive  at  his  goal,  the  calm  self-respect 
of  the  place  produced  in  him  an  emotion  which  was 
almost  awe.  He  went  by  court  after  court,  each 
labelled  in  Gothic  lettering,  each  protected  from  the 
noises  of  the  corridor  by  double  swing-doors, 
and  though  no  sound  whatever  reached  him  from 
these  mysterious  retreats,  he  nevertheless  felt  in 
his  most  secret  soul  that  justice  was  being  adminis- 
tered therein  with  scales  ineffably  even.  Stone 
walls  and  heavily  leaded  glass  could  not  prevent 
the  effluence  of  those  magnificent  qualities  which 
have  earned  for  English  justice  the  homage  of  the 
world.  Here,  he  thought,  is  something  pure;  perhaps 
there  is  naught  else  so  pure. 

He  had  traversed  three  sides  of  a  rectangle,  and 
looked  down  from  a  gallery  on  the  huge  nave-like 
hall  of  waiting,  when,  after  traversing  another 
corner,  he  suddenly  saw  Cyples  and  a  portly  barris- 
ter In  conversation  with  Phyllis.  They  were  stand- 
ing in  an  embrasure,  and  he  was  intensely  glad  that 
they  did  not  observe  him  as  he  slipped  past.  The 
blood  had  flowed  to  his  cheeks.  His  wife  was 
dressed  in  mourning,  and  wore  a  black  picture-hat 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  301 

and  a  black  boa.  She  had  smiled  up  at  Cyples 
precisely  at  the  moment  when  he  caught  sight  of 
her.  How  well  he  knew  that  smile!  His  wife  was 
an  adulteress;  but  adultery  seemed  to  make  no 
difference  to  her;  she  was  unchangeable.  The  two 
middle-aged  stout  men,  Cyples  and  the  barrister, 
were  most  evidently  pleased  to  be  talking  to  her. 
If  they  knew! 

A  little  further  on  was  Mrs.  Capewell,  sitting  by 
herself  with  folded  hands,  gazing  at  the  stone  floor. 
Her  too  he  passed  successfully,  and  then  he  was  in 
the  midst  of  a  miscellaneous  crowd  of  persons  who 
were  talking  in  louder  tones  than  he  had  yet  heard. 
There  were  elegantly  dressed  women,  sluts,  even 
young  girls  in  gray  costumes,  and  various  kinds  of 
men,  including  a  Catholic  priest.  They  had  some 
topic  of  extreme  interest,  and  all  appeared  to  be 
chattering  at  once.  A  couple  of  barristers  and 
several  solicitors'  clerks  surveyed  them  with  affable 
and  amused  disdain.  On  the  wall  was  painted 
the  legend,  "Divorce  Court  No.  2."  He  searched 
for  the  sister  court,  and,  having  achieved  it,  remem- 
bered that  he  must  impound  his  witnesses;  but  he 
could  not  see  them  in  any  of  the  corridors.  He  came 
back  to  Divorce  Court  No.  i,  and  fronted  the 
guardian  of  the  swing-doors. 

"What  case,  sir.'*"  the  doorkeeper  asked  politely. 

"Eh.'"'  said  Lawrence. 


302  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

"What  case,  sir?  What  name?  If  you  aren't  a 
witness  or  a  party,  the  entrance  for  the  public  is 
upstairs." 

Lawrence  could  not  persuade  himself  to  designate 
to  the  Impassive  dark-blue  doorkeeper  the  name 
of  his  case. 

"I'm  a  solicitor  from  the  country,"  he  said 
gruffly. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir."  The  doorkeeper  saluted 
with  due  respect  and  opened  the  door,  and  Lawrence 
entered.  Before  he  had  opened  the  second  door  a 
hand  touched  him  on  the  shoulder.     It  was  Mark's. 

"Here  I  am!"  said  Mark. 

They  shook  hands  In  silence. 

"You  aren't  dressed  for  the  part,  my  boy," 
Mark  whispered. 

Mark  wore  strict  afternoon  dress,  with  a  black 
and  white  necktie  and  new  gloves,  whereas  Law- 
rence was  in  brown  travelling  costume,  with  a 
bowler  hat. 

"Oh,  rot!"  said  Lawrence,  somewhat  loudly, 
as  he  pulled  at  the  second  door.  He  had  not  once 
thought  of  his  dress. 

"Hsh!"  cried  an  ofhclal  voice  within  the  court. 

Lawrence  espied  Mr.  Wray,  who  was  addressing 
the  judge  in  his  cockney  treble.  There  was  room 
on  the  bench  immediately  behind  him,  and  Lawrence 
slid   into  the  longitudinal   aperture  of  the  bench, 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  303 

Mark  following.  Then  he  extracted  his  papers 
from,  the  inner  pocket  of  his  overcoat  and  put  them 
on  the  narrow  desk.  Wray,  without  pausing  in 
his  speech,  moved  his  head  a  little  in  order  to  see  who 
had  so  closely  approached  him. 

The  petitioner  in  Ridware  v.  Ridware  gazed  about 
him  nervously.  He  was  at  last  in  the  Divorce  Court. 
There,  in  front  of  him,  high  up,  and  entrenched 
behind  an  apparatus  of  carved  oak  and  shaded  elec- 
tric lamps  and  calf-bound  volumes  and  huge  ink- 
stands, was  the  celebrated  President  of  the  Division, 
dominating  the  lofty  and  prelatlcal  chamber. 
He  was  large  and  heavy;  his  face,  though  puffed, 
had  the  pallor  which  comes  with  long  hours  spent 
in  foetid  atmospheres,  and  the  austere  glacial  refine- 
ment of  feature  which  comes  perhaps  from  con- 
stantly dealing  with  niceties.  He  had  the  air  of  a 
distinguished  man;  he  sat  sideways  in  his  chair 
like  a  distinguished  man,  and  he  even  raised  himself 
up  from  time  to  time  in  his  chair,  which  was  too 
high  for  him,  like  a  distinguished  man.  He  alone 
of  all  the  people  present  seemed  to  be  completely 
detached  from  the  matter  in  hand;  it  was  as  if  he 
were  rapt  in  contemplation,  and  as  if  Mr.  Wray's 
words  glanced  off  his  reverie  as  arrows  might  glance 
off  armour.  But  once,  not  shifting  his  gaze  from  a 
spot  in  the  gigantic  bookcase  to  his  right,  he  ejacu- 
lated  in   that   renowned   aristocratic  voice  of  his, 


304  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

masculine  and  yet  delicate,  with  its  amazing  clear- 
ness of  beautiful  enunciation:  f 

"You  mean  Philip  Carr,  not  Andrew,  do  you  not?" 

"I  beg  your  lordship's  pardon.     I  should   have 
said    Philip,"  Mr.  Wray  corrected  himself  hastily. 

The  President  was  of  a  piece  with  his  court  — 
with  its  purple  -portieres,  its  rich  woodwork,  its 
Gothic  windows  near  the  roof,  its  massive  and  stately 
furniture.  He  imparted  his  judicial  majesty  to 
the  whole  interior  and  the  entire  personnel.  Below 
him  were  ranged  in  a  row  the  clerk  of  papers,  the 
judge's  clerk,  the  official  shorthand  writer,  and  the 
clerk  of  lists;  and  in  the  centre  of  these,  differentiated 
from  them  by  his  wig  and  gown,  was  the  aged 
Associate.  And  all  the  men  showed  in  all  their 
gestures  that  they  were  accustomed  to  exist  in  dig- 
nified silence  under  the  shadow  of  the  great  and 
trained  intellect  above  them.  The  inane  face  of 
the  black  usher  was  magisterial  in  its  inanity. 
In  a  corner  to  the  judge's  left,  near  the  empty  jury 
box,  was  a  many-armed  hat  stand  of  a  design  incon- 
ceivably banal;  and  even  this  importation  from 
Tottenham  Court  Road  could  not  impair  the  tre- 
mendous dignity  of  the  court,  and  one  felt  that,  were 
it  loaded  with  the  hats  and  coats  of  a  jury  gathered 
from  all  the  suburbs  of  the  town,  even  then  it  could 
have  had  no  ill  effect  on  its  proud  environment. 

In  the  well  of  the  court,   facing  the  Associate 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  305 

and  his  companions,  sat  a  lady  and  a  few  solicitors. 
Behind  these,  rather  higher,  came  the  wrinkled 
faces  of  the  King's  Counsel,  sprawling  in  their  silk 
gowns  in  various  attitudes  before  piles  of  papers. 
Some  of  them  were  conversing  together  in  soundless 
whispers.  Then  came  the  juniors,  of  all  ages. 
And  behind  these  two  irregular  rows  of  wigs  were 
more  solicitors  and  clerks,  and  then  the  rabble  of 
suitors,  witnesses,  and  persons  interested.  The 
gallery  above  was  crowded  and  the  gangways  were 
crowded,  and  the  audience  listened  intently  to  the 
utterly  tedious  remarks  of  Mr.  Wray  concerning 
the  admissibility  of  certain  evidence,  for  in  the 
Divorce  Court  you  must  miss  nothing  lest  you  miss 
something  extremely  piquant. 

And  presently,  Mr.  Wray  having  concluded  his 
argument,  the  judge  said: 

"I  do  not  agree  with  you,  Mr.  Wray,  and  I  shall 
admit  the  evidence." 

Mr.  Wray  bowed  blandly;  he  did  not  seem  to 
care  one  tittle. 

And  a  very  old  man  was  called  into  the  witness- 
box,  and  began  to  give  evidence  as  to  what  had 
occurred  in  a  hotel.  "I  get  up  at  six  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  always  did,"  said  the  old  man.  "And 
three  times  I  saw  him  coming  out  of  Mrs.  Carr's 
room."  And  he  continued  with  details  as  to  cos- 
tume, displaying  a  kindly  and  yet  cynical  humour. 


3o6  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 


<( 


'And  did  you  make  any  observation  to  him  on 
these  occasions?"  asked  the  examining  King's 
Counsel. 

"He  made  an  observation  to  me." 

"What  did  he  say.?" 

"He  said,  'Good  morning.''  "  The  old  man's 
eyes  disappeared  in  a  smile. 

"And  did  you  offer  any  reply.'"' 

"I  said,  'GooJ  morning,  Mr.  Isaacsohn.'" 

"Nothing  else.?" 

And  the  witness  reproduced  these  two  greetings 
with  such  an  appreciation  of  the  comedy  in  them, 
he  forced  them  to  carry  so  much  of  that  naughtiness 
which  passes  between  man  and  man  when  a  woman 
is  in  question,  that  everybody,  except  the  judge  and 
Lawrence,  laughed  with  delight.  The  whole  court 
hugged  itself  in  its  joy  at  receiving  this  tit  bit. 

And  gradually  the  secret  imperious  attraction 
of  the  Divorce  Court  grew  clearer  to  the  disgusted 
and  frightened  Lawrence  than  it  had  ever  been 
before.  Here  there  was  no  pretence  that  the  sole 
genuine  interest  in  life  for  the  average  person  is 
not  that  which  it  is.  Here  it  was  frankly  admitted 
that  a  man  is  always  "after"  some  woman,  and  that 
the  woman  is  always  running  away  while  looking 
behind  her,  until  she  stumbles  and  is  caught.  Here 
the  moves  of  the  great,  universal,  splendid,  odious 
game    had    to    be    described    without    reservation. 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  307 

Nothing  could  be  left  out.  There  was  no  Mrs. 
Grundy.  All  the  hidden  shames  were  exposed  to 
view,  a  feast  for  avid  eyes.  The  animal  in  every 
individual  could  lick  its  chops  and  thrill  with  pleas- 
ure. All  the  animals  could  exchange  candid  glances 
and  concede  that  they  were  animals.  And  the 
supreme  satisfaction  for  the  males  was  that  the 
females  were  present,  the  females  who  had  tempted 
and  who  had  yielded  and  who  had  rolled  voluptuously 
in  the  very  mud.  And  they  were  obliged  to  listen, 
in  their  prim  tight  frocks,  to  the  things  which  they 
had  done  dishevelled,  and  they  were  obliged  to 
answer  and  to  confess  and  to  blush,  and  to  utter 
dreadful  things  with  a  simper.  The  alluring  quality 
of  this  wholesale  debauch  of  exciting  suggestiveness 
could  never  fail  until  desire  failed.  As  an  enter- 
tainment it  was  unique,  appealing  to  the  most  vital 
instinct  of  the  widest  possible  public.  It  had  no 
troublesome  beauty  to  tease  the  mind  or  disturb 
the  sleeping  soul.  In  short,  it  was  faultless.  And 
only  the  superhuman  and  commanding  mien  of 
the  judge,  who  was  capable  of  discussing  the  foulest 
embroidery  of  fornication  as  though  it  were  the 
integral  calculus,  saved  the  scene  from  developing 
into  something  indescribable. 

If  Lawrence  watched  them,  the  hands  of  the  clock 
would  not  move,  but  whenever  he  took  his  eyes  off 
them  they  leapt.     And  so  the  time  passed,  and  the 


3o8  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

case  of  Carr  v.  Carr  grew  Into  clearness  under  the 
eternal  patience  of  the  judge.  Interest  might  vary 
in  degree,  but  it  was  never  less  than  lively,  and  the 
court  became  more  and  more  crowded,  for  the  ca- 
prices of  Mrs.  Carr  had  been  anything  but  common- 
place; and  yet  no  one  could  be  quite  sure  whether 
after  all  Mr.  Carr  had  a  genuine  grievance.  Law- 
rence gazed  round  the  court  at  intervals;  and  he 
descried  his  landlady  behind  him;  she  was  in  irre- 
proachable black  silk.  She  recognized  him  with  a 
smile,  and  by  a  gesture  made  him  understand  that 
the  servant  was  waiting  outside,  the  Divorce  Court 
doubtless  being  in  her  opinion  no  place  for  the 
servant.  He  also  saw  Cyples,  who  nodded  cordially, 
but  Phyllis  had  not  entered  the  Court.  He  wondered 
whether  Knight,  the  barrister  who  would  oppose 
his  petition,  was  present,  and  his  eyes  ran  along  the 
row  of  juniors  to  find  Knight  and  sum  him  up  in 
advance.  Mark  made  sketches  in  a  little  book; 
he  drew  a  delicious  caricature  of  Mrs.  Carr,  and  was 
amusing  himself  pretty  well  until  the  black  usher, 
having  nothing  better  to  do,  crept  round  to  him  and 
whispered  in  a  whisper  of  the  deepest  and  most 
respectful  consideration: 

"Excuse  me,  sir.     Perhaps  you  don't  know  that 
sketching  is  forbidden  in  Court;  also  reading  news- 


papers." 

"I'll  stop,"  said  Mark. 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  309 


((' 


'Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  usher,  as  though  Mark 
was  doing  him  a  favour.  Mark  made  a  few  more 
strokes,  just  to  prove  that  he  was  an  Englishman 
not  to  be  intimidated,  and  then  shut  his  book. 
And  the  stimulating  and  agreeable  evidence  contin- 
ued, the  name  of  God  being  invoked  by  the  usher 
on  behalf  of  each  witness.  And  then  suddenly  the 
judge  lifted  himself  out  of  his  chair  and  disappeared 
like  magic  behind  a  curtain.  It  was  the  hour  for 
luncheon.  The  court  emptied  as  a  theatre  empties 
at  the  end  of  an  act;  only  the  official  shorthand 
writer  and  the  reporter  of  the  Press  Association 
remained  behind  to  compare  notes  in  the  seats 
vacated  by  the  august. 

At  the  door  Bowes  was  waiting. 
\  "Not  your  turn  yet,"  said  he  to  Lawrence. 

"No." 

"Tasty  little  bit  of  stuff,  Mrs.  Carr,  eh.?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I'll  toddle  round  again  after  lunch,  though 
I  doubt  if  we  shall  be  called  to-day." 

"Who's  that  ass.'"'  demanded  Mark,  who  had 
been  staring  hard  at  Bowes.  The  brothers  were 
in  the  corridor,  which  was  crowded. 

"He    is    rather    a    johnny,  isn't    he?"    Lawrence 
agreed.     "But  I  like  him.     He's  Apreece's  clerk." 
."Well,  don't  let  me  deprive  you  of  him." 

Mark  suggested  lunch  at  a  chop  house  in  Fleet 


3  TO  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

Street  which  was  living  on  its  reputation,  and  they 
walked  down  together.  They  had  seen  each  other 
only  once  since  the  unforgettable  night  when  Phyllis 
left  the  house  at  Toft  End,  Mark  having  spent  the 
next  following  week-end  with  Lawrence,  according 
to  his  promise.  But  now,  as  usual,  they  had  noth- 
ing to  say  to  each  other.  They  went  to  the  chop 
house  in  a  silence  which  was  unbroken  save  by  a  few 
remarks  about  the  contents  bills  of  newspapers  that 
they  encountered.  Lawrence  was  inclined  to  be 
cheerful  because  there  was  a  chance  that  his  case 
would  not  be  heard  that  day.  He  fervently 
desired  that  Carr  v.  Carr  and  the  next  petition  after 
it  might  endure  for  weeks.  And  though  he  knew 
this  desire  to  be  absurdly  infantile,  he  could  not 
get  rid  of  It.  Mark's  mute  companionship  soothed 
him,  and  In  spite  of  his  hatred  of  sentimentality, 
he  found  comfort  in  the  secret  assurance  which  he 
had  that  Mark,  at  no  matter  what  personal  loss 
and  Inconvenience,  would  not  leave  his  side  until 
the  trial  was  over. 

And  In  the  expensive  chop  house  they  seated 
themselves  on  hard  benches,  and  kicked  up  real 
sand  with  their  feet,  and  watched  fat,  perspiring 
men,  dressed  In  white,  handle  lumps  of  raw  flesh, 
with  their  great  greasy  hands.  And  they  listened 
to  the  frizzling  of  the  raw  flesh  over  an  open  fire, 
and  saw  it  flung  onto  plates.     And  when  the  plates 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  311 

were  brought  to  them  they  began  to  eat  the  flesh 
with  gusto.  And  Mark,  who  knew,  If  any  one 
knew,  said  that  a  better  steak  could  not  be  obtained 
within  the  four-mile  radius.  Then  three  men  with 
whom  Mark  was  acquainted  strolled  into  the  chop 
house.  Two  were  black-and-white  draughtsmen 
and  the  third  was  a  journalist.  But  they  belonged 
to  the  higher  ranks  of  their  crafts.  They  were  like 
Mark  himself,  bachelors  who  just  contrived  to  make 
both  ends  meet  on  a  thousand  or  fifteen  hundred  a 
year.  Mark  introduced  Lawrence  and  invited 
them  to  sit  at  his  table.  When  they  asked  him  what 
he  had  been  doing  with  himself  that  morning  he 
replied  that  his  brother  was  on  a  visit  to  London 
and  they  were  spending  the  day  together.  Mark 
was  now  quite  talkative,  quite  the  man-of-the-world. 
One  of  the  draughtsmen  said  that  he  had  heard  a 
good  story,  and  he  related  the  good  story,  and  many 
other  good  stories  followed,  including  several  from 
Mark.  They  were  all  excellent,  for  the  standard 
of  good  stories  in  such  circles  is  very  high.  But 
they  were  monotonous;  there  was  not  one  that  did 
not  touch  a  petticoat.  Yet  neither  Mark  nor  his 
friends  seemed  to  tire  of  them.  Their  interest  in 
the  subject  was  ingenuous  and  inexhaustible. 
At  the  stage  of  coffee  it  was  just  as  fresh  as  it  had 
been  at  the  commencement  of  the  repast.  Lawrence 
too  was  a  considerable  amateur  of  such  good  stories, 


312  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

and  his  taste  In  them,  if  fastidious,  was  extremely 
catholic.  But  he  could  not  savour  them  that  day. 
It  appeared  to  him  that  the  whole  silly  world  was 
obsessed  by  the  petticoat  —  that  symbol!  As  for 
him,  he  hated  it.  His  ideas  had  come  to  be  vio- 
lently monastic. 

The  journalist  mentioned  a  passage  in  Ld-Bas. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Mark,  who  wished  to  show 
his  brother  off.  "You  were  asking  me  about  Huys- 
mans's  early  novels  the  other  day.  Lawrence  can 
tell  you  all  about  them." 

The  journalist  became  deferential  at  once. 

"Do  you  like  Huysmans.'*"  he  demanded. 

"Huysmans,"  said  Lawrence,  "is  a  test  of  literary 
taste.  Of  course  I  like  him.  Have  you  read  Les 
Sceurs     Vdtard?^^ 

The  journalist  humbly  admitted  that  he  had  not. 
The  draughtsmen  were  soon  struggling  in  water  too 
deep  for  them,  and  they  and  Mark  listened  to  Law- 
rence and  the  journalist.  Mark  was  proud  of  Law- 
rence. For  a  few  minutes  Lawrence  almost  forgot 
that  he  had  a  wife. 

The  Court  was  sitting  when  Lawrence  and  Mark 
returned,  and  just  as  in  the  morning  it  had  seemed 
that  the  judiciary  spectacle,  as  Lawrence's  gaze 
first  caught  it,  had  existed  since  everlasting,  so  now 
it  seemed  that  there  had  been  no  break  in  its  activ- 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  313 

ity  and  that  It  would  continue  thus  forever.  The 
judge  lifted  himself  tranquilly  from  time  to  time 
in  his  chair;  the  officials  beneath  him  maintained 
the  old  dignified  and  motionless  silence;  a  witness 
exactly  like  all  other  witnesses  was  squirming  in 
the  witness  box;  one  gray  wig  stood  aloft  above  the 
other  wigs,  nodding  and  offering  conversational 
remarks  to  the  judge  and  to  the  witness;  the  pencils 
of  the  shorthand  writers  flitted  from  line  to  line 
of  their  note  books;  and  the  eager,  spell-bound  public 
listened  with  pristine  intentness,  despite  the  nar- 
cotic impurity  of  the  exhausted  afternoon  air.  But 
the  downfall  of  Mrs.  Carr  and  the  end  of  the  agree- 
able case  of  Carr  v.  Carr,  Isaacsohn  and  Dove  was 
at  hand.  Mr.  Dove,  the  second  co-respondent, 
proved  to  be  not  quite  clever  enough  In  the  witness 
box.  With  a  few  clumsy  admissions  he  ruined  the 
edifice  of  innocence  which  Mrs.  Carr  and  the  other 
co-respondent  had  so  ingeniously  erected.  The 
junior  bar,  all  those  acute,  clean-shaven,  sharp- 
featured  faces,  looked  at  each  other  with  pained  and 
chivalrous  contempt  of  the  cad.  Dove.  Dove  had 
given  a  woman  away.  Dove  had  not  lied  with 
sufficient  conviction.  Dove  was  unworthy  of  the 
name  of  man,  and.  If  such  an  outburst  had  been 
permissible,  the  junior  bar  would  have  expressed 
its  disgust  by  hissing  the  wretch's  performance. 
Within  a  few  minutes  the  judge  had  granted  a  decree 


314  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

nisi,  and  the  very  next  instant  the  black  usher 
called  loudly,  Simpson  v.  Simpson.  The  case  of 
Carr  v.  Carr,  Isaacsohn,  and  Dove  was  finished, 
done  with,  and  forgotten  by  judge,  counsel,  solici- 
tors and  public.     It  was  like  an  old  wife's  tale. 

Simpson  v.  Simpson  was  quite  a  different  kind 
of  base.  The  petitioner  was  praying  for  a  declara- 
tion of  nullity  of  marrige,  and  the  arguments  were 
purely  legal  and  technical,  having  no  connection 
whatever  with  nature.  The  stimulus  of  sex  was 
curiously  absent  from  Simpson  v.  Simpson.  The 
issues  raised  had  a  higher  and  palpitating  interest 
for  the  judicial  mind,  and  the  judge  was  obviously 
roused  by  them  out  of  his  inhuman  calm;  but 
the  general  audience  melted  away  like  snow  under 
the  forensic  heat  engendered.  After  two  hours, 
when  a  couple  of  King's  Counsel  and  a  couple  of 
juniors  had  ended  their  altercations,  a  hush  fell 
upon  the  court.  The  bar  thought  the  judge  would 
reserve  his  decision.  But  no!  He  remained  in 
brooding  silence  for  a  few  minutes,  which  seemed 
like  hours,  and  then  he  proceeded  to  deliver  one  of 
those  judgments,  clear,  stylistic,  penetrating,  per- 
fectly balanced,  and  unanswerable,  which  were  the 
dazzling  delight  of  lawyers  and  also  of  himself. 
The  hour  for  the  rising  of  the  court  was  already 
past,  and  Lawrence  knew  that  his  own  action  would 
be  first  on  the  list  the  next  day. 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  315 

He  spent  the  evening  with  Mark  in  Mark's  small 
private  studio,  which  opened  out  of  the  large  studio 
where  he  held  his  classes  in  London.  This  studio 
was  richly  furnished,  and  maintained  in  the  meticu- 
lous perfection  of  orderliness  which  only  a  bachelor 
may  achieve.  There  was  a  grand  piano  in  it.  They 
were  interrupted  in  the  performance  of  the  C  Minor 
Symphony,  arranged  for  four  hands,  by  a  ring  at  the 
door  of  the  large  studio.  Mark  answered  the  sum- 
mons, and  Lawrence  heard  in  the  distance  the  mur- 
mur of  a  girl's  voice,  and  caught,  through  the  gloom, 
the  momentary  sheen  of  yellow  hair  under  a  lamp. 
Then  a  door  banged,  and  Mark  returned  to  him, 
a  little  self-consciously.  And  to  cover  his  self- 
consciousness  Mark  suddenly  began  to  talk  about 
the  divorce. 

"I  can  see  you're  awfully  nervous,  my  boy," 
said  Mark.  "  But  really  you  oughtn't  to  be.  There 
is  simply  nothing  in  it,  you  know,  if  you  look  at 
it  in  the  right  way.     What  is  it,  after  all.?" 

Lawrence  agreed  that  there  was  nothing  in  the 
ordeal,  after  all,  and  swore  that  he  was  not  a  bit 
nervous.  And  they  talked  late,  discussing  Law- 
rence's case  from  every  possible  point  of  view. 

"Now  all  you've  got  to  do  is  to  treat  it  as  the 
most  ordinary  thing  in  the  world,"  Mark  insisted 
again,  just  as  they  were  going  into  court  the  next 


3i6  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

morning.  "It  will  be  over  in  no  time,"  he  added, 
"and  you'll  see  —  if  you  get  that  idea  firmly  into 
your  head  —  you'll  see  there'll  be  simply  nothing 


in  it." 


Lawrence  made  no  reply. 

"But  isn't  it  so.^"  said  Mark,  who  was  determined, 
as  a  man  of  the  world,  to  do  his  duty  by  Lawrence. 

"Oh,  yes,"  Lawrence  agreed. 

The  court  was  not  full,  but  it  was  quickly  filling. 
All  the  officials  were  in  their  places,  except  the 
judge's  clerk.  One  of  the  shorthand  writers  was 
sharpening  a  pencil.  Then  the  judge's  clerk,  a  portly 
man  in  a  blue  reefer  suit,  appeared  in  front  of  the 
-portiere  behind  the  President's  great  chair  and 
drew  the  portiere  aside,  and  the  President,  holding 
his  robe  in  a  fold  with  one  hand,  entered.  The 
usher  sprang  up.  Everybody  rose  and  remained 
standing  until  the  President,  having  acknowledged 
the  existence  of  the  rest  of  the  world  by  a  stately 
bow,  assumed  his  seat. 

"Ridware  versus  Ridware." 

The  cry  fell  on  Lawrence's  ears  like  a  knell. 
Nevertheless  he  was  determined  to  treat  the  expe- 
rience as  the  most  ordinary  thing  in  the  world,  and 
he  winked  at  Mark.  He  was  stationed  immediately 
behind  Mr.  Wray,  as  on  the  previous  morning,  and 
he  had  Mark  on  his  left  and  Mr.  Bowes  on  his  right. 
Farther  along,   on  the    same    bench,    was    Cyples. 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  317 

Lawrence  was  so  little  his  usual  self  that  he  had  for- 
gotten to  look  among  the  crowd  for  his  wife. 

"Isn't  she  here?"  he  whispered  to  Mark,  suddenly 
thinking  of  her. 

Mark  silently  pointed  with  his  finger.  Phyllis 
was  seated  in  the  well  of  the  court,  almost  precisely 
where  Mrs.  Carr  had  been  the  previous  day.  He 
could  not  see  her  face,  but  he  could  see  her  hat, 
and  the  back  of  her  head,  and  they  were  purity 
itself.     Mrs.  Capewell  was  with  her. 

Mr.  Wray  got  on  his  legs.  "My  lord,"  he  began, 
and  opened  the  case  in  a  casual  conversational 
tone  of  his  cockney  voice.  And  while  Lawrence 
studied  the  whiteness  of  his  collar  and  the  crimson 
of  the  nape  of  his  neck,  and  torn  seam  in  his  stuff 
gown,  and  thought  what  a  ridiculous  person  he  was, 
Mr.  Wray  explained  to  his  lordship  that  the  case 
was  of  the  utmost  simplicity,  and  that  he  should 
not  long  detain  his  lordship;  and  in  a  moment  he 
was  launched  on  a  smooth  recital  of  the  facts, 
hesitating  sometimes  for  a  word,  but  steering  a 
straight  course.  And  in  another  moment,  so  it 
seemed  to  Lawrence,  the  usher  was  calling  out 
Lawrence's  name,  and  Mr.  Bowes,  with  an  encour- 
aging smile,  was  making  room  for  him  to  pass. 

And  then  he  was  in  the  witness-box,  and  his 
large,  reddish  hands,  presenting  a  strange  contrast 
to  his  thin  pallid  face,  were  playing  nervously  with 


3i8  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

the  rail.  '* There's  nothing  in  it,"  he  said  to  himself 
boldly.  "All  I  have  to  do  is  to  keep  calm  and  an- 
swer questions."  And  when  the  usher,  a  busy, 
officious  individual,  administered  the  oath  to  him> 
calling  his  name  very  loudly  and  clearly  in  the 
judge's  direction,  but  mumbling  the  formula  with 
slovenly  haste,  he  stared  coldly  at  the  usher,  and 
waited  a  second  before  kissing  the  book.  From  the 
witness  box  the  court  had  quite  a  different  aspect. 
In  the  first  place  he  could  see  the  general  public 
in  the  gallery;  they  were  simply  rows  of  dull  foolish 
faces,  faces  without  features.  The  double  rows  of 
bewigged  barristers  appeared  to  ignore  him.  Some 
of  them  were  whispering  to  each  other.  Only 
Mr.  Wray,  raised  above  the  rest,  had  an  eye  upon 
him  expectant  and  anxious.  Phyllis  had  averted 
her  face;  he  saw  it  in  profile.  The  eternal  faint 
enigmatic  smile  exasperated  him.  He  was  some- 
what lonely,  up  there  in  the  witness  box.  But  he 
was  very  close  to  the  judge.  In  a  furtive  glance 
he  could  detect  the  lines  on  the  judge's  face. 

Mr.  Wray  opened  his  mouth,  and  then  interrupt- 
ing himself,  turned  to  Bowes,  and  asked  something 
of  Bowes,  and  Bowes,  putting  on  a  serious  expres- 
sion, answered.  Lawrence,  on  the  rack  of  suspense, 
thought,  as  all  litigants  do,  that  Counsel  was  being 
rather  perfunctory. 

"Your  name  is  Lawrence  Ridware.'*" 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  319 

"Yes." 

"And  you  are  a  solicitor?" 

"Yes." 

"You  are  the  husband  of  Phyllis  Ridware.?" 

"Yes." 

And  he  had  to  give  the  date  of  his  marriage,  and 
some  other  details. 

"When  did  you  first  suspect  that  your  wife  had 
secret  relations  with  the  late  Emery  Greatbatch.''" 

"In  August  of  last  year,  at  Glasgow."  And  he 
described  the  episode  at  St.  Enoch's  station. 

"You  were  then  living  in  Glasgow.?" 

"Yes,  I  had  my  house  there,  at  that  time." 

The  judge  turned  to  look  at  him,  somewhat 
abruptly. 

"Are  you  a  Scotchman.?"  the  judge  asked. 

"No,  my  lord.  My  father  was  English,  but  my 
mother  was  Scotch.     I  was  born  in  England." 

Lawrence  was  perfectly  calm,  and  he  felt  quite 
thankful  to  Mark  for  having  insisted  to  him  that 
the  trial,  regarded  dispassionately  in  the  light  of 
detached  common  sense,  would  be  the  most  ordinary 
affair  in  the  world,  and  therefore  supportable. 
His  fears  had  been  groundless.  The  one  thing  that 
mattered  was  his  dignity,  and  he  felt  now  that  he 
should  keep  his  dignity  with  ease.  He  knew  that 
the  judge  was  a  gentleman;  and  as  for  Knight, 
Phyllis's    counsel,    he    did    not    care    twopence    for 


320  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

Knight.  It  was  extremely  fortunate  that  his 
own  evidence  did  not  bear  closely  on  his  wife's 
conduct. 

Under  Wray's  guidance,  he  informed  the  court 
about  the  anonymous  letter,  the  visit  of  Lottie,  and 
Phyllis's  sudden  departure  from  his  house,  and 
Emery  Greatbatch's  death.  And  after  a  few  more 
questions  Wray  said:  "Thank  you,"  and  sat 
down.  There  was  indeed  nothing  for  Knight  to 
cross-examine  him  upon. 

Then  Knight  rose,  a  stout,  genial  person,  distantly 
resembling  Cyples,  with  a  very  leisurely  quiet  voice. 

"Now  Mr.  Ridware,"  said  the  barrister  amiably, 
consulting  his  'brief,  "when  you  saw  your  wife 
with  the  late  Mr.  Greatbatch  at  St.  Enoch's  sta- 
tion at  Glasgow,  why  did  you  not  go  up  and  speak 
to  them?" 

Lawrence  could  not  think  of  an  answer.  "I 
did  not  care  to,"  he  said  lamely. 

"You  did  not  care  to?  But  surely  that  would 
have  been  the  most  natural  thing  to  do!  Great- 
batch  had  been  an  old  school  friend  of  yours,  had 
he  not?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  had  never  quarreled?  You  had  noth- 
ing against  him,  except  the  fact  that  there  had  been 
a  boy-and-girl  attachment  between  him  and  your 
wife?" 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  321 

"An  engagement,"  corrected  Lawrence. 

*' Well,  call  It  an  engagement." 

"It  was  an  engagement,"  said  Lawrence  stiffly. 
And  then  he  thought  he  saw  Bowes  making  a  dis- 
creet sign  to  him  not  to  be  bellicose,  and  he  restrained 
himself. 

"So  that  you  considered  that  you  had  a  grievance 
against  Greatbatch  because  he  had  once  been  en- 
gaged to  your  wife.?" 

"Not  at  all." 

"But  still  you  saw  him  with  your  wife  in  the  street, 
and  you  ignored  him.?" 

"I  was  taken  by  surprise.  I  didn't  know  exactly 
what  to  do,  and  I  did  nothing." 

"Did  you  tell  your  wife  afterwards  that  you  had 
seen  them.?" 

"No." 

"Why  not?  You  had  had  time  to  recover  from 
your  surprise." 

"My  wife  said  nothing  to  me." 

"  I'm  not  asking  you  what  your  wife  did  or  did  not 
do.     I'm  asking  you  why  you  said  nothing  to  her." 

"I  do  not  know.     I  simply  did  not  care  to." 

"Do  you  consider  that  you  acted  wisely.?" 

"Yes." 

"Assuming  that  there  had  been  something  wrong 
between  your  wife  and  Greatbatch,  do  you  consider 
that  you  were  wise  in  pretending  to  her  that  you 


322  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED  "^ 

knew  nothing  of  it?  Would  it  not  have  been  better 
as  a  prudent  husband,  jealous  for  his  honour,  to 
have  spoken  to  her  plainly,  and  —  er  —  nipped 
things  in  the  bud?  Would  not  that  have  been 
fairer?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Lawrence. 

"I  really  don't  quite  see  what  my  friend  is  driving 
at,"  protested  Wray,  half  rising. 

"You  will  see  directly,"  Knight  replied  coldly. 
And  he  proceeded,  to  Lawrence:  "Then  soon 
.  afterward  you  gave  up  your  Glasgow  house,  and 
came  to  live  in  the  Five  Towns?" 

"Yes." 

"Greatbatch  lived  In  the  Five  Towns?" 

"He  lived  at  Oldcastle,  just  close  to." 

"Just  close  to.  Now  at  that  time  did  you  or 
did  you  not  suspect  your  wife?" 

"  I  don't  know.     It  is  difficult  to  say. 

"Difficult  to  say?  Let  me  put  It  differently. 
Were  you  absolutely  convinced  of  your  wife's 
innocence?" 

"I  was  not." 

"And  yet  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  you  were 
not  convinced  of  her  innocence,  you  brought  her 
back  to  live  In  the  Five  Towns,  'just  close  to' 
Greatbatch?  Was  that  the  action  of  a  prud- 
ent husband,  careful  for  his  wife's^ honour  and  his 
own?" 


MATRIMONIAL  DP/ISION  323 

Lawrence  blushed.  What  were  Phyllis  and 
Cyples  and  the  abominable  Knight  attempting  to 
prove?     The  Insinuation  was  obvious. 

"I  had  the  offer  of  a  better  situation  in  England," 
he  stammered.     "With  my  old  employer." 

"How  much  better?" 

"A  pound  a  week  better." 

"So  for  the  sake  of  a  pound  a  week  you  were 
willing  to  risk  the  peril  of  —  er  —  relations  between 
your  wife  and  Greatbatch?" 

"Such  an  idea  of  course  never  entered  my  head." 
said  Lawrence  hotly.  No  one  could  help  him.  He 
was  there  alone  in  the  witness-box  and  obliged  to 
ward  off  the  attacks  as  best  he  could.  "I  may 
tell  you,"  he  added  proudly,  "that  I  did  not  mean 
to  stay  in  the  Five  Towns.  I  only  came  back  to 
oblige  my  old  employer  for  a  period.  And  the  proof 
is  that  I  stored  my  furniture  In  Glasgow  and  took  a 
furnished  house  in  the  Five  Towns.  And  my  fur- 
niture is  still  in  Glasgow.  I  came  back  simply  to 
oblige  Mr.  Fearns,  my  employer." 

"Ah!"  commented  Knight.  "You  used  to  quar- 
rel with  your  wife  a  good  deal?" 

"We  have  had  several  quarrels." 

"About  what?" 

"Trifles.     I  can't  remember." 

"They  began  soon  after  your  marriage?" 

"Yes." 


324  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

"You  ceased  to  love  her?" 

A  mad  desire  came  over  him  to  explain  what 
sort  of  a  creature  Phyllis  veritably  was.  But  he 
merely  said:     "Yes." 

"Since  when  have  you  ceased  to  live  together 
as  man  and  wife?" 

"It  is  more  than  three  years  ago." 

"Did  she  ever  refuse  intercourse?" 

"N  —  no.     It  was  by  mutual  consent." 

"You  spoke  to  her  about  it?" 

"No.     Nothing  was  said." 

"You  will  agree,  I  suppose,  that  when  intercourse 
ceases  and  nothing  is  said,  the  responsibility  rests 
with  the  husband,  not  with  the  wife?" 

"  Certainly,"  Lawrence  answered  resentfully. 

"Ah!  Now  during  your  quarrels,  did  you  not 
once  say  to  your  wife  that  you  would  give  all  you 
had,  and  more,  to  be  free  of  her?" 

And  Lawrence  remembered  that  one  night  in 
Glasgow,  after  they  had  been  to  the  Pavilion  Music 
Hall  together  to  see  some  Japanese  jugglers,  Phyllis 
had  quarrelled  with  him  about  nothing  —  about  a 
preposterous  question  of  car  tickets  —  and  he  had 
used  some  such  phrase. 

"I  may  have  said  that,  when  I  was  angry,"  he 
admitted  honestly,  in  a  murmur. 

"Then  you  did  want  to  be  rid  of  your  wife?" 

"I  often  wished  that  I  had  never  married  her," 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  325 

Lawrence    said    haughtily.     "But  that  is  not  the 
same  thing." 

"Would  you  say  that  you  did  everything  you 
could  to  keep  her  out  of  the  hands  of  Greatbatch.'"' 

"I  will  only  say  that  I  acted  for  the  best." 

"Thank  you,"  Mr.  Knight  sat  down  smiling, 
and  Mr.  Wray  jumped  up. 

"Did  your  wife  ever  mention  to  you  that  she  had 
met  Greatbatch  in  Glasgow?"     Wray  asked. 

"Never." 

"Is  there  any  foundation  whatever  for  the  sug- 
gestion that  you  wished  her  to  fall  into  the  hands  of 
Greatbatch?" 

"None.  None!  The  suggestion  is  infamous, 
absolutely  infamous." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Ridware." 

Lawrence  left  the  box,  full  of  shame  and  anger, 
and  slowly  made  his  way  back  to  the  seat  behind 
Wray.  What  astonished  him  was  that  no  one 
seemed  to  be  in  the  least  indignant  on  his  behalf 
at  the  scandalous  treatment  he  had  received  under 
cross-examination.  The  judge  stared  blandly  about, 
rubbing  the  side  of  his  nose  occasionally,  and  lifting 
himself  in  his  chair;  but  apparently  the  judge  saw 
nothing  improper  in  what  had  occurred. 

"You're  all  right,"  Bowes  whispered  kindly. 

And  Mark  gave  a  gesture  which  in  some  way  in- 
dicated to  Lawrence  that  at  any  rate  there  was  one 


326  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

thing  to  be  satisfied  about  —  the  ordeal  was  over. 
And  then  Wray  turned  to  him,  and  smilingly  re- 
marked in  a  benevolent  style:  "Our  friend  evi- 
dently wasn't  drunk  last  night.  Pity  we  weren't 
heard  yesterday  morning.  However — "  And  he 
waved  his  eyeglasses  philosophically.  During  this 
interlude  the  judge  manifested  no  impatience,  but 
continued  to  stare  blandly  about,  as  though  absorbed 
in  some  agreeable  and  not  too  deep  meditation. 

Then  Mrs.  Mary  Malkin,  widow,  who  kept  the 
lodging-house  at  No.  3,  Ham  Terrace,  Manifold, 
was  called,  and  she  waddled,  in  her  rustling  black 
silk  and  gold  chains,  from  the  back  of  the  court  to 
the  witness  box.  She  refused  the  usher's  Bible  and 
produced  her  own.  But  the  usher  scored  against 
her  in  the  matter  of  her  right-hand  glove,  which 
she  had  forgotten  to  take  off.  She  lifted  her  veil 
as  far  as  her  upper  lip  and  then  put  herself  into 
an  attitude  to  defy  all  comers. 

She  was  a  very  strong  witness,  and  an  impressive. 
And  she  did  much  for  Lawrence's  case  by  breaking 
into  sobs  when  Mr.  Wray  first  mentioned  the 
name  of  the  dead  Greatbatch,  "I  ask  your  lordship 
to  excuse  me,"  she  said,  wiping  her  eyes,  and  the 
judge  nodded  compassionately.  This  conduct 
proved  that  she  was  not  hostile  to  the  respondent's 
case,  and  lent  value  to  what  she  said  in  support  of 
Lawrence's. 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  327 

"Mr.  Greatbatch  always  had  that  room,"  she 
replied  to  a  question,  and  added;  "it  was  a  nice 
large  bed-sitting-room  with  a  large  bed." 

"And  one  day  Greatbatch  received  a  lady.^"" 

"Yes,  he  warned  me  that  he  should." 

"What  date  was  that.''"  the  judged  demanded. 

"Holy  Thursday  in  the  present  year,  my  lord," 
said  Mrs.  Malkin.  "He  received  her  on  Good 
Friday." 

"What  time?" 

"For  tea.  She  was  veiled.  I  got  them  a  nice 
tea." 

"Did  you  see  the  lady  unveiled.^" 

"Oh  yes.     I  took  the  tea  up  myself  and  saw  her." 

"Do  you  see  her  in  court  now.?" 

"Yes  —  she's  there,"  and  Mrs.  Malkin  pointed 
to  Phyllis. 

"How  long  did  she  stay?" 

"About  five  hours.     Till  nine  o'clock." 

"During  that  time  Greatbatch  and  Mrs.  Rid- 
ware  were  alone  together  in  the  bed-sitting-room." 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  go  into  the  room  afterwards?" 

"Yes.  I  didn't  like  to  disturb  them  while  she 
was  there.  But  I  went  up  myself  the  moment  the 
lady  had  gone,  to  clear  the  things  away." 

"Did  you  notice  anything  peculiar?" 

"Well  —  I  noticed  when  I  turned  the  bed  down 


328  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

for  the  night  that  the  top  sheet  wasn't  under  the 
bolster  as  I  put  it." 

"You  inferred  from  that  that  the  bed  had  been 
disturbed  and  remade?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  the  lady  come  again .^" 
Yes.     The  next  day  but  one.     Easter  Sunday." 
'Tell  his  lordship  about  that." 

And  Mrs.  Malkin  told. 

"Will  you  swear  that  Mrs.  Ridware  came  at 
about  four  o'clock  on  Easter  Sunday,  that  you  over- 
heard a  man  and  a  woman  talking  at  ten  o'clock, 
and  that  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  Mrs.  Ridware 
had  not  left  Greatbatch's  bed-sitting-room.?" 

"I  will.  I  had  not  gone  to  sleep  at  two  o'clock, 
but  at  four  I  was  awakened  by  hearing  the  front 
door  bang."  Mrs.  Malkin  glared  round  the  court 
and  her  gold  chains  rose  and  fell  on  her  heaving 
bosom. 

"Were  your  other  lodgers  all  in  the  house  the  next 
morning?" 


<(' 


'They  were.  But  the  lady  was  gone." 
When  Knight  began  to  attack  her,  she  proved 
herself  invulnerable.  Knight  accused  her  of  eaves- 
dropping; she  said  that  as  a  landlady  she  was  in 
duty  bound  to  eavesdrop.  He  suggested  that  the 
talking  she  had  heard  was  Greatbatch  talking  to 
himself:  she  smiled.    He  suggested  that  she  had  gone 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  329 

to  sleep  and  that  Phyllis  might  have  left  the  house 
at  an  early  hour  unnoticed  by  her:  she  replied  that 
she  was  in  that  witness  box  to  tell  the  truth  and 
that  she  had  told  it.  And  when  Knight  demanded 
why  she  had  not  gone  or  sent  up  to  clear  the  tea 
things  away  on  the  Sunday  as  she  had  done  on  the 
Friday,  she  burst  into  tears  again  and  referred  to 
poor  Mr.  Greatbatch  and  said  that  she  had  gone 
into  that  witness  box  against  her  will,  and  that  it 
was  most  painful  to  her  to  be  forced  to  soil  his 
memory,  but  that  the  reason  why  she  had  caused 
the  tea  things  to  be  left  alone  was  that  she  did  not 
wish  to  be  mixed  up  in  anything  wrong,  and  that 
she  was  afraid  to  go  into  the  room  or  even  to  knock 
at  the  door  lest  she  should  have  the  proof  of  some- 
thing being  wrong  thrust  upon  her  unwilling  eyes 
or  the  eyes  of  the  servant. 

She  more  than  satisfied  the  expectations  of  Law- 
rence and  his  friends.  And  when  she  descended 
from  the  box  everyone  felt  that  Phyllis  was  a  lost 
woman. 

The  servant  gave  evidence,  chiefly  to  show  that 
Phyllis  could  only  have  left  the  house  by  the  front 
door. 

"That  is  my  case,  my  lord,"  said  Mr.  Wray 
sharply. 

Soon  afterwards  Phyllis  was  called  to  give 
evidence. 


330  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

And  Immediately  she  entered  the  box,  the  emo- 
tional atmosphere  of  the  court  grew  electric.  Phyllis 
was  immensely  effective  in  black;  it  suited  her  pale 
olive  complexion  as  no  colour  could  have  suited  it. 
She  was  beautiful,  grave,  and  distinguished,  and  the 
accident  of  Greatbatch's  death  had  invested  her 
figure  with  an  undeniable  tragic  dignity.  She 
no  longer  smiled.  Her  mien  was  that  of  sweet  and 
proud  resignation.  Everybody  was  Impressed  as 
she  slowly  removed  her  glove  and  kissed  the  book. 
She  let  her  glove  hang  over  the  rail  of  the  box. 

"Until  I  saw  him  by  pure  chance  at  St.  Enoch's 
Station,"  she  said  in  a  clear  and  soft  voice,  In  answer 
to  Knight's  question,  "I  had  not  seen  Emery  Great- 
batch  since  long  before  my  marriage." 

"What  passed  between  you.^*" 

"Nothing  except  friendly  talk.  He  told  me 
that  he  was  afflicted  with  an  Incurable  disease 
and  that  the  doctors  said  he  had  scarcely  a 
year  to  live,  and  that  there  was  no  one  to  look 
after  him." 

"That  aroused  your  sympathy.''" 

"Yes." 

"Why  did  you  say  nothing  to  your  husband  about 
the  meeting?" 

"Because  I  knew  my  husband  to  be  of  an  exceed- 
ingly jealous  and  violent  disposition,  and  I  wished 
to  keep  the  peace  as  much  as  possible." 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  331 

Lawrence  jealous  and  violent!  He  raged  with 
hate  of  her. 

"And  when  did  you  see  him  next?" 

"I  did  not  see  him  again  until  just  before  Easter 
this  year.  I  met  him  again  by  accident  at  Mani- 
fold, where  I  have  a  dressmaker.  It  was  the  Thurs- 
day before  Good  Friday.  He  told  me  his  disease 
was  gaining  on  him,  and  that  he  could  not  live  much 
more  than  three  months.  He  lived  rather  less  than 
three  months.  He  asked  me  to  go  and  have  tea 
with  him  the  next  day.  I  consented.  I  was 
wrong,  I  know.  But  I  did  consent.  And  I  went. 
I  arrived  at  four  and  left  about  nine." 

"And  then  afterwards?" 

"My  husband  was  away  in  London.  He  had  left 
me  in  Bursley.  I  went  again  on  the  Sunday  and 
nursed  Mr.  Greatbatch.  At  least  I  tried  to  cheer 
him  up." 

"How  late  did  you  stay?" 

"I  left  about  nine  o'clock,  as  on  the  Friday. 
I  came  downstairs,  and  seeing  no  one  I  opened  the 
front  door  and  went  out  of  the  house.  I  was  in  a 
very  nervous  state  and  I  walked  all  the  way  home 
from  Manifold  to  our  house  at  Toft  End.  Our  house 
was  empty.     I  had  given  the  servant  a  holiday." 

"Is  the  landlady,  Mrs.  Malkin,  mistaken  in 
saying  that  she  heard  you  and  Mr.  Greatbatch 
talking  at  ten  o'clock  at  night?" 


332  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

"Absolutely.  She  could  not  have  done  so,  be- 
cause I  was  not  there." 

"Did  you  commit  adultery  with  Emery  Great- 
batch.?" 

"I  did  not.  He  was  very  ill  and  lonely,  and  once 
or  twice  I  tried  to  be  a  friend  to  him,  for  the  sake 
of  old  times.     That  was  all." 

She  wept  softly,  and  then  forced  back  her  tears. 
The  audience  was  moved. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Knight. 

Wray  was  obviously  somewhat  timid  in  com- 
mencing his  cross-examination. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Ridware,"  he  piped.  "Do  you 
mean  to  state  seriously  that  you  have  never  given 
your  husband  just  cause  for  suspicion.?  Is  it  not  a 
curious  thing  that  these  visits  to  the  late  Emery 
Greatbatch,  which  you  wish  us  to  believe  were 
perfectly  innocent,  took  place  exactly  at  the  time 
when  your  husband  was  away  in  London.?" 
.     She  made  no  reply. 

Lawrence  leaned  forward  and  pulled  Wray's 
arm.  "She  said  I  left  her  alone  in  the  house,"  he 
whispered  fiercely.  "The  fact  is  she  was  asked  to 
go  to  London  and  refused.  My  brother  here  can 
prove  that.  Get  that  out  of  her." 

Wray  nodded,  with  a  touch  of  impatience,  and 
then  put  the  question  to  Phyllis. 

"Yes,"  said  Phyllis  cautiously.     "He  did  leave 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  333 

me  alone  in  the  house.  It  is  true  that  I  was  asked 
to  go  to  London  with  him,  but  I  did  not  feel  well 
enough.     I  begged  him  not  to  go,  but  he  went." 

"What  an  awful  lie!"  Lawrence  muttered.  "She 
wasn't  well  enough  to  go  to  London,  and  yet  she 
could  walk  ten  miles  home  from  Manifold." 

"As  to  just  cause  for  suspicion,"  Phyllis  went 
on,  not  in  response  to  a  further  question,  "in  the 
relations  between  the  sexes  my  husband  was  always 
extremely  suspicious.  You  see  he  himself  Is  an 
illegitimate  child."  She  spoke  deliberately,  in  her 
low,  clear  voice,  playing  the  while  with  the  glove 
that  hung  on  the  rail.     And  she  faintly  smiled. 

There  was  a  rustle  throughout  the  court,  and 
everybody  Involuntarily  stared  to  look  at  the 
illegitimate  child.  Lawrence  was  staggered.  It 
seemed  to  him  impossible  that  even  Phyllis  should 
have  taken  so  mean  and  wanton  a  revenge  on  him, 
a  revenge  so  futile  and  so  cruel.  Honestly,  In  the 
early  stages  of  their  acquaintance,  he  had  disclosed 
to  her  that  guarded  secret,  which  probably  only 
Mark  knew  besides  himself.  He  had  trusted  her 
implicitly.  The  blood  surged  to  his  head.  He  suf- 
fered perhaps  the  supreme  agony  of  his  life. 

"Never  mind,"  Mark  whispered.  "What  does 
it  matter,  after  all.^" 

Lawrence  nodded;  but  there  were  tears  of  fury 
in  his  red  eyes.     He  did  not  hear  the  remainder  of 


334  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

the  cross-examination.  Presently  Phyllis  stepped 
down  from  the  box,  half  ran  to  her  mother,  kissed 
her  impulsively,  and  burst  into  tears.  She  had 
magnificently  lied,  from  a  pious  and  hysteric  desire 
to  shield  the  memory  of  her  lover,  and  from  a  vin- 
dictive desire  to  thwart  her  husband.  She  had 
profoundly  impressed  a  number  of  people  in  court; 
but  not  the  experts. 

She's  done  herself  no  good,"  Bowes  whispered. 

She  won't  weigh  against  the  landlady."  He  ob- 
viously tried  to  speak  to  Lawrence  in  a  perfectly 
natural  tone,  as  if  to  convince  him  that  he  had 
ignored  Phyllis's  revelation  about  his  illegitimacy 
as  it  deserved  to  be  ignored.  But  he  did  not  entirely 
succeed. 

"Now  or  later,"  said  Wray  to  the  judge,  "I  will 
recall  Mrs.  Malkin,  with  your  lordship's  permission." 

"Before  going  further,"  the  judge  replied,  looking 
not  at  Wray  but  at  Knight.  "I  will  put  a  few 
questions  to  the  petitioner." 

"Petitioner!"  cried  the  usher. 

All  the  lawyers  were  now  suddenly  and  deeply 
interested.     Wray  glanced  anxiously  at  Bowes. 

"Have  I  got  to  go  back  to  the  box?"  Lawrence 
asked  with  foolish  blankness. 

"Yes,  yes.     Quick!     His  lordship  is  waiting." 

And  he  stumbled  back  to  the  witness  box,  half 
dead  with  shamed  confusion,  and  utterly  mystified. 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  335 

"Is  it  true,"  the  judge  demanded  in  a  suave 
and  courteous  tone,  "that  you  were  not  born  in 
wedlock?" 

"Yes,"  murmured  Lawrence,  and  then  in  a  louder, 
angry  voice:  "The  fact  was  naturally  kept  secret 
as  much  as  possible.  My  parents  were  married 
immediately  afterwards,  and  I  cannot  understand 
why  my  wife  should  have " 

"Yes,  yes,"  the  judge  stopped  him.  "I  quite 
comprehend  your  feelings.  Your  mother  was  Scotch 
you  have  said,  and  your  father  English.^" 

"Yes,  my  lord."  A  horrible  fear  came  over  the 
lawyer  in  Lawrence. 

"Your  mother  had  not,  I  presume,  acquired  an 
English  domicile  before  your  birth  .'*  She  could 
only  have  done  that  by  marriage." 

"She  came  to  England  a  few  weeks  before  my 
birth,  and  then  went  back  to  Glasgow." 

"You  did  not,  last  year,  leave  Glasgow  with  the 
definite  intention  of  not  returning?" 

"No,  my  lord." 

"Your  furniture  indeed  is  still  there?" 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

"Thank  you.     That  will  do." 

Lawrence  retired,  with  a  feeling  of  acute  nausea. 
Instead  of  going  to  his  seat  he  remained  standing 
near  the  usher,  spellbound. 
'My  lord,"  Knight  resumed. 


((' 


336         WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

"I  fear  that  I  shall  not  have  to  trouble  you 
further,"  said  the  judge  In  measured  accents.  "It 
appears  to  me  that  a  question  of  jurisdiction  has 
arisen.  This  court  has  direct  instructions  from  the 
Lord  Chancellor  to  watch  carefully  and  see  that 
no  divorces  are  granted  except  in  cases  where  an 
English  domicile  is  clearly  established.  The  Scotch 
courts  are,  rightly,  very  jealous  for  their  jurisdic- 
tion, and,  as  was  decided  in  the  leading  case  of  Le 
Mesurier  v.  Le  Mesurier,  jurisdiction  is  given  by 
domicile  and  not  by  residence.  Now  the  domicile 
of  origin  of  a  legitimate  child  is  that  of  his  father, 
but  the  domicile  of  origin  of  an  illegitimate  child 
is  that  of  his  mother.  The  petitioner's  domicile 
of  origin  was  therefore  Scotch.  He  certainly,  by 
long  residence  in  England,  acquired  an  English 
domicile,  but  when  he  went  to  live  in  Glasgow  his 
domicile  of  origin  reverted.  The  domicile  of  ori- 
gin Is  always  the  stronger,  and  easily  reverts. 
Since  then,  has  he  definitely  re-acquired  an  English 
domicile  ?  Obviously  not.  To  acquire  a  new  dom- 
icile either  long  residence  or  the  clearest  possible 
indication  of  a  settled  purpose  is  necessary.  And 
the  petitioner  has  not  yet  even  removed  his  furni- 
ture from  Scotland.  He  has  himself  stated  that 
he  had  not  decided  not  to  return.  Hence  his  domicile 
is  Scotch,  and  this  court  has  no  jurisdiction.  The 
petition  must  be  dismissed  and  costs  will  follow  the 


MATRIMONIAL  DIVISION  337 

event."  There  was  a  pause.  "In  using  the  phrase 
'instructions  from  the  Lord  Chancellor,'  a  few  mo- 
ments ago,  I  expressed  myself  inexactly.  The  Lord 
Chancellor  does  not  'instruct'  judges  of  the  High 
Court.  But  he  has  placed  facts  before  me  which 
carried  their  own  result,  facts  which  were  stronger 
than  '  instructions'  and  I  took  them  as  '  instruc- 
tions' although  not  in  the  sense  in  which  I  used 
the  word." 

His  lordship  sank  back  in  his  chair.  He  had 
delivered  an  interesting  and  ingenious  and  irrefu- 
table judgment.  He  had  impressed  the  bar.  He 
had  behaved  honourably  to  his  Scottish  brethren 
of  the  bench.  And  he  was  not  ill  pleased  with 
himself. 

"Smalls  V.  Smalls  and  Jackson,"  a  voice  an- 
nounced. 

He  directed  his  intellect  to  the  next  case. 

For  Lawrence  the  issue  was  not  merely  a  disaster; 
it  was  a  disgrace.  He  could  not  meet  the  eyes  of 
Wray  or  of  Bowes.  He  had  concealed  an  essential 
fact  from  his  advisers!  And  he  was  a  lawyer!  He 
ought  to  have  foreseen  all  consequences,  provided 
against  all  risks.  Yet  it  had  never  even  occurred  to 
him  that  his  domicile  was  not  English.  He  had 
left  everything  to  Pennington,  and  of  course  Pen- 
nington was  not  aware  of  the  circumstances  of  his 


338  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

birth.  He,  a  lawyer,  acquainted  with  the  dangers 
of  the  vast  judicial  machine,  had  allowed  himself 
to  be  caught  and  crushed  in  the  machine.  In  vain 
he  cursed  the  barbaric  rule  which  visits  the  irregu- 
larities of  parents  upon  absolutely  innocent  chil- 
dren! In  vain  he  cursed  the  antique  jealousies 
existing  between  English  and  Scottish  courts. 
In  vain  he  cursed  all  that  was  mediaeval,  illogical, 
clumsy,  and  cruel  in  the  fabric  of  legal  systems. 
He  was  a  lawyer,  and  he  ought  to  have  known. 
He  lived  on  the  law;  he  saw  the  law  from  within, 
and  he  ought  to  have  known. 

Neither  Wray  nor  Bowes  nor  Mark  could  say 
anything  to  him.  But  the  expression  of  Wray's 
face  was  not  benevolent. 

Lawrence  had  only  to  leave  the  court.  He  left 
it,  in  company  with  Mark,  and  stood  hesitating  in 
the  corridor,  full  of  his  shame  and  his  anger  and  his 
self-condemnation.  Then  Phyllis  emerged  on  the 
arm  of  a  chivalrous  Cyples,  her  mother  behind. 
She  had  won;  she  was  triumphant;  and  the  tragedy 
of  her  lover's  death,  bathing  her  form  in  poetic 
grief,  seemed  to  sanctify  her  revenge. 

"I'll  begin  again  in  the  Scottish  courts,"  Lawrence 
cried  passionately.  "If  it  costs  me  every  cent  I 
have  I'll  be  free  of  that  d d  woman." 

"Let's  get  out  of  this,  my  boy,"  said  Mark 
quietly. 


CHAPTER  X 


ON    THE    LEAS 


TOWARD  the  end  of  the  month  of  August, 
long  before  the  trial  of  Ridware  v.  Rid- 
ware,  Charles  Fearns  knocked  one  even- 
ing at  the  door  of  No.  'j'j  Sea  View,  Sandgate.  It  was 
the  bravest,  or  the  most  desperate,  act  of  his  life. 
The  progress  of  his  own  divorce  baffled  and  mad- 
dened him.  It  went  on,  like  some  inevitable  scheme 
of  evolution,  and  he  could  not  arrest  it,  do  what  he 
would.  He  had  appealed  to  Cyples  and  failed; 
he  had  appealed  to  Lawrence  and  failed.  He  had 
written  to  his  wife;  he  had  even  written  to  Annun- 
ciata,  having  the  address  typewritten  so  that  she 
might  open  the  envelope  unsuspectingly.  These 
letters  had  elicited  no  answer  whatever.  At  the 
same  time,  on  the  legal  side,  he  had  fought  his 
wife's  action  step  by  step,  except  the  petition  for 
alimony,  leaving  nothing  undone  that  might  aid 
his  ultimate  victory.  As  to  alimony,  he  had  at 
once  agreed  to  the  sum  demanded  by  Cyples  on  be- 
half of  Alma.  He  had  contrived  to  remain  friendly 
with  Cyples.     In  short  he  had  conducted  himself 

339 


340  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

unexceptlonably.  But  he  had  not  succeeded  in 
stopping  the  case.  The  case  indeed  was  set  down 
for  trial,  and  would  be  reached  during  the  Michael- 
mas sittings.  Soon  it  would  be  necessary  to  draw 
the  brief  for  Counsel,  and  decide  in  detail  the  lines 
of  defence.  The  final  calamity  was  to  him  almost 
inconceivable. 

So  on  a  certain  afternoon  he  suddenly  jumped  into 
a  train  at  Knype  and  went  to  Sandgate.  He  would 
see  his  wife.  He  would  insist  on  seeing  her.  Either  he 
would  see  her  or  he  would  do  something  terrible.  He 
would  certainly  convince  her  that  he  was  in  earnest. 
And  after  all  she  was  still  his  wife,  the  same  woman 
who  had  lived  in  subjection  to  him  for  over 
twenty  years. 

As  he  walked  down  the  exposed  sea-road  from 
Sandgate  Railway  Station,  with  the  sea  restlessly 
lapping  at  his  right,  and  vague  yellow  walls  and  es- 
carpments to  his  left,  in  the  hot  and  feverish  evening, 
he  knew  and  realized  that  he  had  never  in  his  life 
felt  as  he  felt  then.  It  was  exactly  as  though  the 
top  of  his  head  must  blow  off  like  the  lid  of  a  boiler. 
What  relief  that  would  have  been!  The  feverish 
summer  night  nourished  and  exasperated  his  fever. 
He  was  damp  with  perspiration,  and  yet  sometimes 
a  shiver  chilled  him.  And  he  kept  muttering: 
"My  God!  My  God!  This  is  awful!  This  is  awful!" 
and  sighing,  and  pushing  his  straw  hat  back  and  then 


ON  THE  LEAS  341 

forward,  and  wildly  rotating  his  cane.  His  con- 
dition was  extremely  pitiable.  He  pitied  himself 
acutely.  He  sincerely  thought  that  he  was  suffering 
far  beyond  his  deserts,  and  that  if  women  were  not 
beings  too  often  incapable  of  genuine  compassion, 
his  wife  could  not  but  yield  after  a  single  glance  at 
him.  Decidedly  his  wife  had  surprised  him.  He 
imagined  that  he  had  known  her  to  the  marrow  of 
her  bones,  but  she,  in  common  with  all  the  other 
women,  she,  the  sacred  exception,  had  proved  in- 
calculable, femininely  incalculable. 

He  approached  a  terrace  of  houses;  the  gas  lamps 
increased.  His  pace  slackened.  He  pretended  that 
he  was  walking  more  slowly  in  order  to  decipher  the 
numbers  on  the  house  doors ;  but  it  was  sheer  coward- 
ice that  had  got  hold  of  his  legs.  At  length  he 
discovered  the  number,  made  doubly  sure  that  it 
was  the  right  number,  passed  on  a  few  paces,  re- 
turned, and,  sick  with  apprehension,  rang  a  very 
loud  and  startling  bell.  The  house  was  between  the 
road  and  the  sea.  Cyplcs,  who  had  been  down  there, 
had  once  told  him,  with  a  kind  of  wonder,  that  at 
high  tide  the  sea  washed  the  wall  of  the  garden  at 
the  back  of  the  house. 

He  heard  quick  footsteps  within  the  house.  "By 
God!"  he  murmured  in  a  passion  of  fear. 

Martha  opened  the  door;  not  the  unkempt 
Martha  that  he  had  known,  but  a  finished  and  rather 


342  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

natty  Martha.  In  a  few  months  Martha  had  grown 
up.  The  change  In  her  was  quite  remarkable,  and, 
distracted  as  he  was,  he  observed  the  style  of  her 
black  frock  and  the  white  cap  and  apron.  A  feeble 
jet  of  gas  burned  behind  her  in  the  narrow  hall. 

She  peered  at  him. 

"Mr.  Fearns!"  she  said  in  her  broad  Five  Towns 
voice.  She  showed  no  emotion  at  seeing  him.  She 
just  continued  to  stand  at  the  door,  occupying  the 
whole  width  of  the  narrow  hall.  Her  primness  and 
her  obtuseness  robbed  him  instantly  of  his  heroic 
desperation,  and  forced  him  to  behave  in  a  manner 
which  was  even  an  exaggeration  of  the  casual  and  the 
everyday. 

"Mistress  In.^"  he  demanded,  wondering  whether 
he  ought  not  to  step  boldly  forward  and  assume 
possession  of  the  house. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Martha. 

"Where  is  she?"  he  asked,  and  he  was  aware  of  an 
instinctive  relief  on  learning  that  Alma  was  not  In. 
But  why  did  not  Martha  make  way  for  him  to  enter.'' 
What  instructions  had  she  received.'' 

"Missis  Is  gone  to  the  Folkestone  Leas,  sir,  to 
hear  the  band  play,  with  Miss  Annunclata  and  Miss 
Emily  and  Master  Charles.  Master  Frank  and 
Master  Sep  are  in  bed." 

"Oh!"  said  Fearns.  "Well,  perhaps  I'll  go  up 
there  and  meet  them." 


(( 


UT'I 


ON  THE  LEAS  343 

"Yes,  sir.     They  haven't  been  gone  long." 
I  say,  Martha." 
^ Yes,  sir.?" 

Have  you  any  brandy  in  the  house.?" 
I'll  see,  sir.  Will  you  come  in,  sir.?"  She 
softened.  She,  Martha,  the  least  of  his  servants, 
was  actually  according  him  permission  to  come  into 
his  wife's  house!  She  introduced  him  to  a  small 
sitting  room  and  raised  the  gas.  It  was  the  or- 
dinary furnished  sitting  room  of  summer  commerce; 
but  his  wife's  books,  and  some  toys,  and  a  hat  of 
Annunciata's  were  lying  about.  The  experience  was 
like  that  of  a  dream.  He  gazed  at  himself  in  the 
looking  glass.  Save  that  his  hair  was  damp  and 
disarranged,  he  could  not  perceive  in  his  appearance 
any  trace  of  the  unusual.  He  looked  as  strong  and 
well  as  ever.  And  yet  he  was  almost  fainting, 
and  he  felt  very  sick  and  absolutely  empty  at  the 
same  time. 

Martha  came  with  a  travelling  flask  and  a  glass, 
and  he  drank  some  brandy. 

"Now  give  me  a  crust  of  bread,  will  you,  and  I 
shall  be  all  right." 

"A  crust  of  bread,  sir.?" 

"Yes,  It's  all  I  can  eat." 

And  Martha  brought  him  a  crust  of  his  wife's 
bread  on  a  small  plate,  and  he  ate  it,  breaking  it 
first  into  small  pieces.     And  then,  violently  stimu- 


344  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

lated  by  the  brandy,  and  his  digestive  organs  busy 
with  the  bits  of  hard  crust,  he  left. 

"If  I  miss  them,  I  shall  come  back,  Martha," 
he  said. 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  agreed  impassively. 

She  mystified  him.  She  even  awed  him  slightly. 
He  would  have  liked  to  see  Sep  and  Frank  in  their 
bed,  but  he  dared  not  suggest  to  Martha  this  pro- 
ject of  taking  a  glimpse  at  his  own  children. 
;  And  he  continued  eastward,  through  the  silent 
main  street  of  Sandgate  in  the  direction  of  Folke- 
stone. There  were  little  fancy  shops  in  Sandgate, 
where  such  foolish  agreeable  things  as  postcards 
were  bought  and  sold;  and  there  was  a  milliner's, 
with  the  window  full  of  women's  hats,  and  there  were 
grocers'  and  butchers'  and  other  establishments  that 
spoke  of  domesticity  and  family  appetites  and  order- 
liness and  weekly  bills.  It  happened  to  be  the 
quiet  hour  which  precedes  closing,  when  the  shop- 
keepers sit  idle  and  languorous  behind  their  counters, 
glad  to  see  customers  but  not  expecting  them,  and 
waiting  only  for  the  clock  to  strike.  The  High 
■  Street  dozed  decently  in  Its  blue  electricity,  and  the 
passage  of  the  Folkestone  motor-bus ;  scarcely  dis- 
.  turbed  it  from  its  doze.  And  Fearns  traversed  all 
this  quiet,  regularized  respectability  with  the  idea 
that  he  was  a  dark  and  obscure  and  tortured  thing 
utterly  foreign  to  it  and  to  all  that  it  represented. 


ON  THE  LEAS  345 

Yet  once,  he  too  had  been  just  such  a  pillar  of 
society  as  upholds  Sandgate  and  hundreds  of  places 
like  it  round  the  coast  of  England.  He  grew 
excessively  sentimental. 

Then  he  penetrated  into  the  gloom  of  the  lower 
Folkestone  Road,  and  he  had  passed  the  funicular 
railway  that  climbs  to  the  level  of  the  Leas,  and  was 
amid  larger  houses  that  stood  unassailable  in  gardens 
throwing  the  radiance  of  their  peaceful  inner  life 
through  yellow  blinds  across  the  roadway.  And 
now  and  then  he  caught  the  wide  sheen  of  the  sea, 
and  the  flush  of  the  Gris  Nez  light.  And  then  at  a 
particular  point  —  for  he  knew  the  route  well  — 
he  struck  a  winding  path  going  zigzag  up  the  steep 
bushy  face  of  the  high  cliff  on  which  newer  Folkestone 
is  raised.  The  path  was  very  dark  and  mysterious, 
and  at  every  corner,  hidden  In  low  trees,  was  a  bench, 
and  seated  on  every  bench  was  a  couple,  murmuring, 
or  more  often  silent,  in  ecstasy  under  the  August 
night  —  a  couple  that  hated  him  for  intruding  and 
desired  the  whole  rapt  beautiful  world  to  themselves. 
And  he  savagely  hated  all  the  couples,  with  their 
stupid  Illusion,  their  obstinate  continuance  in  self- 
deception,  their  bland,  Idiotic  regard.  He  would 
have  liked  to  shout  fiercely  in  their  silly  ears:  *'Do 
you  know  what  it  is  —  this  damnable  sex.''  Do 
you  know  what  it  leads  to?"  And  thus  he  went 
upward,  and  the  immense  expanse  of   the   Channel 


346  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

was  unrolled  before  him,  and  it  was  so  still  and  so 
lovely,  and  so  suggestive  of  the  tranquillity  of  pure 
souls,  that  he  loathed  it;  he  could  see  no  beauty  in  it, 
as  he  stared  at  it  in  disgust,  watching  steamers  and 
fishing  boats  crawling  imperceptibly  across  it.  "  Why 
have  I  come  up  here?"  he  growled  viciously.  "I 
shall  never  find  them  in  the  crowd.  I  shall  only 
have  to  go  back  again  and  hang  about  till  the 
children  are  gone  to  bed  and  then  knock  at  the  door, 
and  begin  the  whole  infernal  thing  afresh.  And 
supposing  I  do  meet  them!  We  can't  have  a  scene 
on  the  Leas.  It  would  be  as  awkward  as  the  devil; 
Alma  or  Annunciata  might  do  something  absolutely 
monstrous.  There  is  no  counting  on  them  —  and 
then  where  should  I  be.^"'  And  the  sense  of  delay, 
of  uncertainty,  of  suspense,  angered  him  profoundly. 
He  wished  he  had  not  left  the  Five  Towns.  And 
the  temptation  to  plunge  into  debauch  openly, 
and  let  her  get  her  cursed  decree  nisi  and  her 
cursed  decree  absolute,  wandered  into  his  mind  and 
wandered  out  again. 

Suddenly  he  reached  the  summit,  and  out  of 
darkness  and  mystery  he  emerged  onto  the  large 
tableland  of  the  Leas,  stretching  under  the  crude 
effulgence  of  electric  globes  east  and  west  in  ap- 
parently endless  vistas.  This  emergence  had  the 
disconcerting  swiftness  and  surprise  of  something 
dreamed;  the  enormous  well-dressed  crowds  seemed 


ON  THE  LEAS  347 

to  be  walking  silently  to  and  fro  in  a  dream  over 
dreamy  grass;  and  the  huge  crimson  hotel  and  the 
great  boarding-houses  with  their  bellying  windows 
and  floor  above  floor  of  exposed  interiors  were  like 
the  architecture  of  some  impossible  theatre.  From 
a  raised  bandstand  an  orchestra  exhaled  into  the 
night  wafts  of  music,  which  gently  stirred  the  vague 
sentimentality  of  ten  thousand  breasts,  appealing 
irresistibly  to  the  secret  romanticism  of  the  race. 
Jews  and  Gentiles  were  gathered  together  in  a 
formidable  array  of  wealth  and  self-importance  at 
the  famous  resort.  The  women  were  elaborate  in 
white  or  pale  toilettes  of  surpassing  fragility,  the 
men  either  in  evening  dress  or  in  the  lesser  correct- 
ness of  flannels  and  of  Panama  hats.  They  walked 
sedately  to  and  fro,  or  they  sat  sedately  on  the  in- 
numerable chairs,  and  they  might  have  beencreatures 
dreaming  in  the  dream  of  Charles  Fearns,  whom 
agony  had  made  a  poet.  No  sound  was  heard  but 
the  melody  that  spread  over  the  Leas  from  the 
bandstand  hidden  among  many  rings  of  chairs,  a 
melody  banal  and  yet  sincere  in  its  expression  of 
some  fragment  of  the  universal  longing.  Feet 
trod  noiselessly  on  the  withered  grass.  In  the  heat 
of  the  night  the  supine  pleasure-seekers  found  scarcely 
energy  to  speak,  allowing  themselves  to  be  lulled  by 
the  faint  music  into  reveries  that  were  sad  and  de- 
licious.    It  is  perhaps  in  such  moments  of  torpor 


348  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

that  the  soul  is  most  intensely  and  truly  alive,  most 
free  within  the  bonds  in  which  the  exigences  of 
society  have  swathed  it. 

And  Charles  Fearns  surveyed  this  multitudinous 
throng  with  a  cold  and  heavy  stare,  loathing  it  yet 
comprehending  it.  He  too  had  experienced  the 
power  of  the  drawing-room  ballad  rendered  by  a 
few  fiddlers  in  the  warm  obscurity  of  an  August 
evening.  He  too  had  felt  the  magic  of  a  glimpse  of 
a  woman's  face  lit  up  for  an  instant  by  the  red  glow 
of  a  cigar,  and  the  strange  significance  of  a  murmured 
word  or  a  half  achieved  gesture.  He  too  had  known 
the  savour  of  those  exquisite  moments  when,  by  the 
sea,  overlooking  the  sea,  it  is  impossible  to  distin- 
guish between  joy  and  sorrow,  and  all  feeling  is 
simplified  into  a  unique  emotion  that  defies  analysis. 
But  now,  in  the  extremity  of  his  woe  and  of  his 
punishment,  he  could  have  wished  that  Venus  had 
never  risen  from  the  wave.  He  would  have  refused 
all  that  he  had  ever  accepted  in  order  to  possess 
the  apathetic  calm  which  refusal  alone  can  give. 
And  as  he  looked  bitterly  at  the  scene,  and  at  the 
glittering  rosy  interior  of  the  boarding-houses,  and 
at  the  broad  steps  of  the  hotel  which  men  and  elegant 
women  were  continually  ascending  and  descending, 
and  at  little  lighted  windows  shining  here  and  there 
high  up  in  the  dark  facade  of  the  hotel,  there  was 
but  one  thought  in  his  heart.     "Fools!  Fools!"  he 


ON  THE  LEAS  349 

ejaculated  angrily  in  his  heart.  He  imagined  that 
his  was  the  wisest  mind  in  that  assemblage. 

He  strolled  along  eastward  by  the  side  of  the  cliff. 
The  sounds  of  steamers  came  up  from  the  harbour; 
beneath  him,  on  the  cliff's  face,  warm  airs  meandered 
in  the  branches  of  trees;  and  by  listening  intently  he 
could  hear  the  regular  fall  of  the  sea  on  the  shore 
hundreds  of  feet  below.  Then,  with  a  wrench,  he 
tore  himself  from  the  asphalt  path  and  immersed 
and  lost  himself  in  the  crowd.  His  wife  and  children 
were  somewhere  in  the  crowd.  It  seemed  curious! 
He  could  not  expect  to  find  them.  He  did  not  wish 
to  find  them.  He  feared  to  find  them.  His  energy 
and  his  initiative  had  deserted  him.  He  approached 
the  bandstand,  could  not  tolerate  its  music, 
and  made  his  way  doggedly  out  of  the  crowd 
again  meaning  to  return  at  once  to  the  quietude  of 
Sandgate  and  there  reflect  upon  exactly  what  he 
should  do. 

And  then  he  saw  Charlie  and  Emily,  his  two  school 
children,  whom  he  had  not  seen  since  Easter.  They 
were  chasing  one  another  with  laughter,  and  he 
could  detect  a  hoarse  note  in  Charlie's  voice.  The 
lad  was  actually  growing  up.  And  Emily's  long 
legs  were  longer;  she  was  nearly  as  tall  asAnnunciata. 
Yes,  Annunciata  stood  close  by,  leaning  against  the 
rail  of  the  cliff  and  gazing  out  to  sea.  She  was  in 
white   like   Emily,    and    astoundingly   graceful,    he 


350  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

thought,  with  her  fair  face  and  the  enchanting  curve 
of  her  cheek,  which  he  could  just  see.  And  this  was 
the  girl  that  had  spied  on  his  iniquity  and  ruined 
him!  This  was  the  girl  who  would  denounce  him 
before  the  law!  And  there  were  persons  who  would 
persuade  him  that  he  could  not  stop  it!  Of  course 
he  could  stop  it.  She  was  his  daughter.  What 
good-looking,  healthy,  well  brought  up  children 
he  had!  They  would  hold  their  own  on  the  Leas 
with  other  people's  children.  And  he  was  their 
father.  It  was  not  to  be  forgotten  that  he  was  their 
father.  He  speculated,  as  often  he  had  speculated 
before,  as  to  how  their  mother  had  explained  to  the 
younger  children  the  changed  circumstances  of  the 
family  life.  Had  she  told  them  bluntly  that  their 
parents  had  separated,  or  had  she  merely  temporized. 
At  any  rate  Charlie  and  Emily  did  not  seem  in  the 
least  sad;  they  did  not  seem  to  miss  him;  their  days 
went  on  as  if  he  had  been  nothing  to  them.  Yet  he 
was  their  father.  He  was  the  author  of  the  family, 
the  responsible  founder  of  it!  And  he  stood  apart, 
a  sort  of  an  outcast,  a  mere  visitor  to  Folkestone, 
one  among  the  crowds  of  pleasure-seekers  on  the 
Leas,  an  undistinguished  item.  His  children  did  not 
even  glance  in  his  direction.  He  was  not  more  than 
fifty  feet  off  them,  but  they  had  no  suspicion  of  his 
arrival,  and  he  might  as  well  have  been  fifty  miles  off. 
There  was  a  large  hooded  chair  on  the  grass  quite 


ON  THE  LEAS  351 

near  him,  but  presenting  to  him  its  left  side  and  part 
of  its  back.  Alma  was  concealed  in  that  chair.  He 
knew  she  was  in  that  chair.  He  could  see  her  white 
skirt,  and  one  of  her  feet  extended  in  front  of  the 
other.  If  he  had  called  out  she  would  have  recog- 
nized his  voice.  She  was  watching  over  his  chil- 
dren, and  dreaming  perhaps.  What  should  he  do.'* 
Should  he  fly.^  Should  he  have  the  courage  of  his 
cowardice  and  fly. ^  Or  should  he  join  his  family 
and  let  happen  what  might  happen  .f* 

Charlie  and  Emily  ran  away  along  the  path, 
Charlie  pursuing  Emily.  They  appeared  to  be 
very  fond  of  each  other.  This  mutual  fondness  hurt 
him.  It  somehow  wounded  his  vanity.  With  a 
swift  resolve  he  walked  boldly  up  to  Annunciata 
and  stood  by  her  against  the  rail.  She  instinctively 
drew  back  from  this  affronting  stranger,  and  then 
she  recognized  him.  He  looked  at  her,  at  his  daugh- 
ter, quietly,  and  it  was  as  if  they  were  meeting 
for  the  first  time  in  their  lives,  after  having  known 
each  other  always  by  reputation.  He  noticed  the 
fear  in  her  face. 

"Ann!"  he  said. 

"Father?"  she  whispered  tentatively.  He  thought 
her  voice  hard  and  cold. 

"Go  and  take  Charlie  and  Emily  home,"  he  said, 
"I  want  to  talk  quietly  to  your  mother,  and  I  can't 
if   they're   about.     Go   along,"    he   repeated   in    a 


352  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

commanding  tone.  "Tell  them  I  say  they  are  to 
be  off  home. " 

"Yes,  father,"  she  acquiesced,  still  in  that  voice 
hard  and  cold,  and  without  meeting  his  eyes.  And 
she  went,  slowly,  hesitatingly.  He  breathed  a  sigh, 
and  turned  towards  the  hooded  chair.  His  wife,  who 
had  seen  him  in  colloquy  with  Annunciata,  was  ap- 
proaching him  with  quick  nervous  steps. 

"Charles!"  she  murmured.  She  was  excessively 
agitated,  but  he  could  not  be  sure  whether  by  resent- 
ment or  by  mere  surprise.  She  stopped  about  a 
yard  from  him,  with  lips  twitching.  And  he  looked 
at  her  and  she  at  him,  and  each  strove  to  read  the 
other  and  neither  succeeded.  They  had  been  pro- 
foundly intimate  for  over  twenty  years.  At  certain 
seasons,  in  the  far  past,  they  had  been  as  intimate 
as  a  man  and  a  woman  can  be.  And  now  the  his- 
toric fact  of  this  intimacy  to  rise  up  between  them 
and  utterly  confound  them.  They  had  parted  with 
a  kiss.  They  met,  and  in  the  tumult  of  their  feeling 
they  could  not  decide  on  what  plane  they  stood. 
Habit  worked  its  powerful  spell  and  forced  them  at 
last  to  speak  in  the  tones  which  they  had  always 
used  when  misunderstandings  occurred  —  a  tone 
not  tragic  nor  heroic. 

"  What  were  you  saying  to  Annunciata.^"  Alma 
asked  in  troubled  apprehension. 

"Surely  I  can  speak  to  my  own  daughter!"  he 


ON  THE  LEAS  353 

said,  not  angrily  but  rather  with  a  dull  bitterness. 
He  was  relieved  that  he  had  encountered  her,  and 
that  the  first  words  of  the  interview  had  passed:  it 
was  a  beginning.  He  was  decidedly  less  oppressed 
by  the  sense  of  his  own  wrongdoing  than  he  had 
expected.  Indeed  he  almost  had  the  astonishing 
illusion  that  his  was  the  grievance. 

"I  suppose  you  can,"  she  agreed  gently.  He 
could  sec  that  she  was  mastering  herself.  He  too 
must  master  himself.  He  must  do  nothing  clumsily. 
All  depended  on  his  skill  in  managing  her.  And 
he  thought  that  he  could  manage  her;  he  thought 
that  if  any  human  being  could  manage  Alma  he  was 
that  being. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  said,  "I  was  just  asking 
Annunciata  to  take  the  children  so  that  you  and  I 
could  have  a  chat.  Alma.  I've  come  down  specially 
to  talk  to  you.  I  went  to  the  house  and  saw  Martha. 
She  gave  me  some  brandy.  I've  had  no  dinner. 
She  told  me  you  were  up  here,  and  I  came  up  on  the 
chance  of  meeting  you.  Walk  along  with  mr  this 
way,  will  you?" 

He  indicated  the  direction  of  Folkestone. 

Would  she  obey?  A  group  of  people  moved  close 
by  them,  and  he  waited  for  her  response.  Her  face 
had  a  pained,  a  tormented  expression,  and  she  looked 
at  the  grass  and  then  at  the  sea.  And  then  the  dis- 
tant orchestra  softly  breathed  a  new  melody. 


354  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

'*I  suppose  I  had  better,  "  she  said,  "as  you 
are  here." 

And  they  walked  along  together  by  the  cliff's 
edge,  close  together.  She  had  yielded,  and  without 
any  fuss.  He  had  got  her.  She  was  an  instrument 
on  which  he  had  to  play.  Often,  during  recent  weeks 
he  had  desired  intensely  such  an  opportunity,  and 
now  he  had  won  it.  Nevertheless  her  tone  disturbed 
him;  it  even  frightened  him.  It  was  too  amicable, 
too  philosophical.  It  was  the  tone  of  a  woman  who 
was  convinced  that  she  knew  precisely  where  she 
was  and  whither  she  was  going. 

"There's  something  I  must  say  to  you,"  he  mut- 
tered awkwardly.  Certainly  the  situation  was  in- 
finitely more  delicate  than  he  had  anticipated.  He 
simply  could  not  use  the  phrases  which  his  brain 
had  formed  in  advance. 

"What.?" 

"Look  here,  Alma,  this  action  must  stop.  It 
really  must.    You  are  bound  to  regret  it  afterwards." 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"But  surely  anything  is  better  than  the  scandal.'"' 
he  argued. 

"No,"  she  said.  "I  don't  think  anything  is 
better  than  the  scandal.  That's  just  the  point 
that  I  really  have  settled  in  my  own  mind." 

"You've  never  given  me  any  opportunity  of '* 

he  hesitated.     He  wanted  to  conduct  the  conver- 


ON  THE  LEAS  355 

sation  In  a  proper  manner,  moving  logically  from 
point  to  point,  and  leaving  no  point  until  it  had  been 
definitely  argued  out.  But  he  could  not.  His 
brain  was  already  in  disorder. 

"Opportunity  of  what?"  she  asked. 

"Of  letting  you  hear  my  side  of  this  affair." 

"Well,"  she  said.  "What  is  your  side  of  the 
affair?"  ' 

"Of    course "  he  commenced   lamely.     He 

perceived  that  by  requesting  him  to  state  his  side 
of  the  affair  she  had  compelled  him  at  once  to  expose 
his  weakness.  He  could  not  state  his  side  of  the 
affair;  it  was  not  to  be  stated. 

"You  don't  mean  that  the  whole  thing's  an  error 
and  due  to  a  misconception?"  she  said,  with  a  touch 
of  grimness.  "You  aren't  going  to  ask  me  to  credit 
that?"  And  she  continued  to  walk  regularly  by 
his  side,  gazing  in  front  of  her  with  a  fixed  stare. 
There  was  a  pause  in  the  talk. 

"You're  terrible,"  he  murmured.  "Terrible! 
I  wouldn't  have  thought  you  could  have  been  so  — 
well,  let's  assume  I've  made  a  fool  of  myself.  Let's 
assume  that.  Think  the  worst  of  me  you  can  — 
though  it's  not  so  bad  as  you  imagine,  Alma.  It 
isn't  really.  But  assume  it  Is  —  assume  It  is.  What 
then?  By  God,  Alma,  there's  many  and  many  a 
husband  worse  than  me,  if  you  only  knew!  I  could 
tell    you    things.     You    know   I'm   frightfully   fond 


356  WTIOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

of   you.      You    know    I   think   the   world  of  you. 
Don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  admitted,  "I  believe  you  do." 

He  was  pleased.  He  had  scored  a  little  advantage. 
And  he  continued  with  a  slight  access  of  confidence: 

"And  then  there  are  the  children.  I'm  just  as 
attached  to  them  as  you  are,  every  bit.  I  never 
get  as  much  pleasure  as  I  get  in  my  own  home." 

"Evidently!"  she  ejaculated.  And  he  detected 
in  her  voice  a  note  of  callous  bitterness  —  that  was 
startlingly  new  in  his  experience  of  her.  He  had 
said  something  stupid,  something  that  left  him 
exposed  to  an  obvious  and  extremely  cruel  retort. 
And  she  had  not  hesitated  to  fling  the  dart.  He  was 
wounded.  Alma  was  not  sportsmanlike,  after  all; 
she  was  like  other  women.  She  was  destroying  his 
ideal  of  her.  Yes,  he  had  said  something  incredibly 
stupid,  but  that  Alma  should  have  seized  on  it  and 
used  it  against  him,  pained  him  even  more  than  the 
wound  she  had  dealt.  He  was  dashed,  shaken.  He 
staggered,  and  rallied  his  forces. 

"You  must  think  of  the  children,"  he  insisted, 
with  a  pathetic  air  of  wisdom  and  authority. 

I've  been  thinking  of  nothing  else,"  she  replied. 
It  was  because  of  the  children  that  I  left  your 
house,  and  it  is  because  of  the  children  that  I  am 
bringing  the  action.  Don't  fancy  that  I  have  any 
other  motive,  please." 


ON  THE  LEAS  357 

"But  it  will   cling  to  them   all   their  liveg,"  said 

he. 

"What  will  cling  to  them  all  their  lives?" 

"The  scandal  of  the  action  —  if  you  let  it  go 
on. 

"Not  it!"  said  Alma.  "People  like  you  are  apt 
to  give  too  much  importance  to  scandal."  (Peo- 
ple like  him!  What  did  she  mean?  How  bitter 
she  was,  in  spite  of  the  gentleness  of  her  voice! 
He  had  told  her  that  he  had  had  no  dinner,  and  that 
Martha  had  given  him  brandy;  but  she  did  not  seem 
to  care.  How  well  and  calm  she  looked!)  "The 
scandal  won't  attach  to  your  children  and  it  won't 
attach  to  me.  And  in  any  case  it  will  soon  be  for- 
gotten. One  doesn't  discuss  a  divorce  case  forever, 
even  in  Bursley.  Do  you  suppose  the  scandal  will 
keep  the  boys  from  getting  on  in  life,  or  the  girls 
from  marrying?  Pvc  thought  a  good  deal  about 
the  scandal,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  it  will  only  be 
like  an  illness.  It  will  cure  itself.  It  will  be  ab- 
solutely forgotten  long  before  the  children  are  old 
enough  to  understand  it." 

"Not  Annunciata,"  he  put  in. 

"No.  I  wasn't  thinking  of  Annunciata.  Annun- 
ciata isn't  a  child.     She  was.     But  she  isn't  now." 

It  was  extraordinary  how  nearly  everything  his 
wife  said  hurt  him  acutely. 

"You  know  me,  Alma,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 


358  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

"  You  know  the  sort  of  man  I  am.  If  you  go  on  with 
the  action,  I  shall  fight  it  —  tooth  and  nail.  Have 
you  realized  what  the  trial  will  be  to  Annunciata  .J* 
For  that  poor  girl?"  He  almost  wept.  "She'll 
never  get  over  it.     It  will  be  too  shameful." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you, "  Alma  replied.  "  Natur- 
ally it  will  be  very  painful.  But  as  she  says  to  me, 
nothing  else  can  possibly  be  anything  like  as  pain- 
ful as  what  she  has  already  been  through.  She  will 
feel  that  she  is  doing  her  duty  to  me. " 

"Then  you   talk  about  it.^"     He  was   shocked. 

"We  have  talked  about  it." 

"What  does  she  say  about  me.^"' 

"Nothing.  You  don't  suppose  I  should  discuss 
you  with  Annunciata,  do  you?" 

This    pleased    him.     Here    was    a    ray   of   light. 

"Alma,"  he  cried.  "You'll  never  let  that  girl 
give  evidence  at  the  trial.  You'll  never  do  it.  It 
will  be  too  monstrous." 

They  were  approaching  the  eastern  end  of  the 
Leas;  no  one  was  near.  Alma  stopped  suddenly 
and  clutched  the  rail  with  both  hands. 

"And  If  I  don't,"  she  said.  "What  then?  Are 
we  all  to  come  back  to  you,  and  live  together 
again?  You  and  I  and  Annunciata?  Are  we  to  see 
each  other  every  day,  and  talk  just  as  if  nothing 
had  happened? 

She  threw  her  head  back,  defiant. 


ON  THE  LEAS  359 

"No,  no!"  he  said  hurriedly.  "I  don't  mean 
that.  I  didn't  meant  that  for  a  moment.  Only 
drop  the  action.  Live  where  you  like  for  a  year 
or  two.  I  won't  worry  you.  I'll  leave  you  ab- 
solutely alone.  We  can  easily  keep  up  appearances. 
Perhaps  Annunciata  will  marry,  or  go  out  into  the 
world  and  do  something.  She's  the  kind  of  girl 
that  often  does.  Then  you  could  come  back. 
Alma,  I'm  cured.  I'm  certain  I'm  cured.  You 
can  trust  me  In  the  future.  I'll  do  anything  you 
like.  You  can't  suggest  anything  I  won't  do  to 
satisfy  you.  I  shall  never  —  treat  you  badly  again. 
But  to  see  Annunciata  in  the  witness  box  will 
simply  kill  me. " 

"Yes,"  said  Alma  coldly  but  always  gently. 
"It's  yourself  you're  thinking  of.  My  dear  man, 
I  can't  trust  you.  I  know  you  too  well.  We  shall 
never  talk  like  this  again,  and  so  I  may  as  well  say 
what  I  have  to  say.  I  can't  trust  you.  What  you 
tell  me  now  is  perfectly  genuine,  no  doubt.  But 
you're  incurable.  A  man  who  has  done  what 
you've  done  must  be  incurable.  Suppose  I  were  to 
say  that  I  forgave  you  —  I  might  have  even  worse 
to  go  through  later  on.  You've  gone  too  far. 
Oh,  yes!"  She  shuddered.  "You've  gone  too  far. 
I'm  sorry.  But  there  it  is.  You  say  that  anything 
will  be  better  than  the  scandal.  I  say  that  anything 
will  be  better  than  not  being  absolutely  free  of  a  man 


36o  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

like  you.  No!  You  must  try  not  to  mind  me  talk- 
ing in  this  way.  You  came  to  me,  and  I'm  bound 
to  tell  you.  Mind,  I  don't  blame  you.  You  can't 
help  it,  I  know  you  can't  help  it.  I'm  sorry, 
that's  all.  I'm  dreadfully  sorry.  I  wish  I  could 
do  something  for  you.  But  I  can't.  We  all  have  to 
go  through  with  the  thing.  And  please  don't 
forget  that  /  suffer,"  she  added  proudly.  "All  the 
humiliation  Is  mine.  Oh!  Charles,  I  don't  believe 
you  will  ever  guess  what  the  humiliation  was!  And 
here  you  come  and  ask  me  to  forgive  you!  Well,  I 
do  forgive  you.  But  I  must  have  my  freedom.  I 
will  have  it.  It's  my  right.  No  woman  ever 
suffered  more  than  I've  suffered.  I'm  the  mother 
of  your  children,  but  I'm  just  a  woman  too!" 

She  hid  her  face  a  moment  in  her  hands,  and 
sobbed. 

Despair  settled  on  him.  "The  court  will  never 
grant  you  a  divorce,"  he  muttered  feebly. 

"It  will  be  infamous  if  It  doesn't!"  she  exclaimed, 
revolted.  "But  if  I  can't  get  a  divorce  I  shall  take 
a  judicial  separation.  And  I  shall  have  the  children. 
Good-bye!" 

She  turned  abruptly  in  the  direction  of  Sandgate 
and  hurried  off.  For  a  moment  he  was  at  a  loss. 
Then  he  followed  her,  like  a  pertinacious  beggar 
following  a  person  of  wealth. 

"But  Alma " 


ON  THE  LEAS  361 

"Good-bye!"  she  repeated. 

"What  about  me?"  he  demanded  poignantly. 

She  shook  her  head.     "Ah!"  she  breathed. 

The  orchestra  had  ceased  playing  and  the  Leas 
were  nearly  deserted.  All  the  concentric  rings  of 
chairs  were  empty;  the  bandstand  rose  up  in  the 
middle  of  them  like  a  mushroom.  The  electric 
globes  were  extinguished,  but  the  boarding-houses 
and  the  hotel  maintained  their  illuminated  brilliance. 

"What  do  you  say  to  the  children .f" "he  questioned, 
sticking  to  her  side. 

"I  tell  them  not  to   ask  questions,"  said  Alma. 

"I  must  ask  you  to  leave  me  now,  Charles," 
she  announced,  after  a  long  period  of  silence, 
when  they  had  reached  the  Sandgate  end  of  the 
Leas. 

Obeying  a  sudden  savage  impulse,  he  wheeled 
round  and  turned  to  the  Leas  again.  When  he 
looked  for  her  she  was  out  of  sight.  He  gazed 
at  the  sea,  and  he  considered  himself  the  most  ill 
used  creature  on  this  earth.  Quite  apart  from  its 
result,  the  interview  had  not  passed  at  all  as  he 
intended.  He  had  meant  to  meet  her  arguments 
with  arguments;  he  had  meant  to  appeal  to  her 
heart  as  well  as  to  her  mind.  But  she  had  baffled 
him.  There  was  no  doubt  that  Alma  had  completely 
changed;  she  was  a  different  woman.  And  he, 
Charles    Fearns,  had   ended    by    running    after    his 


362  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

wife   like    a  beggar  hysterically  bent  on  getting  a 
halfpenny! 

If  any  one  had  told  him  that  he  admired  and 
respected  her  more  than  ever,  he  would  have  denied 
it  furiously;  but  he  did. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A    PUBLIC   APPEARANCE 

SHALL  you   see  faver?"    Sep    cried    shrilly, 
at  the  open  front-door  of  No.  'j'j^  Sea  View, 
Sandgate,    one    cold,    dark  morning,  early 
in  December. 

Mrs.  Fearns  and  Annunciata  were  getting  into  a 
cab,  which  was  to  take  them  to  Folkestone  to  catch 
the  8:30  express  for  London.  Sep  and  Frank  stood 
on  the  white  step;  behind  these  infants  were  Charles 
and  Emily,  conscious  of  superior  age  and  gravity; 
and  in  the  background  was  Martha.  The  two 
elder  children  were  now  day  scholars  at  their 
respective  schools. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Mrs.  Fearns,  calmly;  and  she 
smiled  on  Sep  and  Frank  with  benignity,  and  told 
them  to  go  in  at  once  lest  they  should  take  cold,  and 
enjoined  Martha  to  the  same  end,  and  nodded  to 
Charles  and  Emily.  And  Emily,  who  had  been 
pouting  because  she  had  failed  to  obtain  any  in- 
formation whatever  from  either  Annunciata  or  her 
mother  as  to  the  object  of  this  mysterious  visit  to 
London,  at  last  deigned  to  smile  in  reply.     Mrs. 


364  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

Fearns  pulled  up  the  windows  of  the  cab,  and 
the  vehicle  drove  off  with  a  rattle  unjustified 
by  its  speed. 

The  two  veiled  women  addressed  no  word  to 
each  other.  Each  sat  with  her  muff  on  her  lap,  and 
furs  round  the  shoulders,  and  by  the  muff  a  small 
satchel;  and  leaning  in  the  corner  of  the  cab  were  two 
umbrellas.  At  Folkestone  Central  they  were  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  too  soon  for  the  train.  "Why, 
mother!"  exclaimed  Annunciata,  "we've  got  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  to  wait!"  "Yes,"  said  Mrs. 
Fearns,  after  she  had  paid  the  cabman.  "But  I 
have  the  tickets  to  see  to."  "Give  me  the  money, 
dearest,"  said  Annunciata,  "I'll  see  to  the  tickets." 
And  Annunciata,  with  a  couple  of  sovereigns  in  her 
hand,  tripped  to  the  ticket-office  and  through  her 
veil  demanded  in  her  thin  girlish  voice  two  first 
returns  to  Charing  Cross,  and  received  them,  and 
meticulously  counted  the  change.  And  the  habitues 
of  the  morning  express,  who  went  to  town  every  day 
and  were  always  on  the  lookout  for  interesting  and 
agreeable  phenomena  to  diversify  their  tedious 
routine,  glanced  at  Annunciata  and  then  at  her 
mother,  and  thought  how  pleasurable  it  would  be  to 
have  charge  of  such  nice  creatures  during  the  jour- 
ney; their  masculine  susceptibilities  were  outraged 
to  see  a  young  and  attractive  woman  buying  her  own 
tickets  and  teasing  her  pretty  head  over  the  change. 


A  PUBLIC  APPEARANCE  365 

A  solicltious  porter  came  along  and  enquired  about 
luggage,  and  when  told  that  there  was  no  luggage 
he  seemed  disappointed,  as  though  Fate  had  robbed 
him  of  a  legitimate  opportunity  to  show  his  devotion 
to  the  sex.  The  guard  himself  put  the  two  women 
into  the  train.  Three  heavily  coated  men  in  the 
same  compartment  examined  them  furtively  over 
the  tops  of  newspapers,  and  then  gradually  lost 
curiosity  as  they  settled  to  the  perusal  of  "Special 
law  reports,"  or  other  matters  equally  absorbing. 
The  wife  and  daughter  of  Charles  Fearns  sitting 
in  opposite  corners  of  the  compartment,  maintained 
an  absolute  silence.  They  did  not  even  read  news- 
papers or  magazines.  From  time  to  time  they 
gazed  idly  out  of  the  window  at  the  naked  brown 
December  landscape;  and  that  was  all.  They  had, 
as  a  fact,  scarcely  discussed  the  affair  which  had  been 
uppermost  in  their  minds  since  the  flight  from  the 
Five  Towns.  Between  two  intimate  and  pro- 
foundly affectionate  souls  there  exists  often  a  shy- 
ness, an  unconquerable  modesty,  which  prevents 
freedom* of  converse  on  certain  subjects.  Had 
Annunciata  and  her  mother  been  separated  by  dis- 
tance they  would  most  probably  have  written  freely 
aboutthe  divorce;  but  to  speak  freely  was  impossible. 
After  Annunciata's  candid  recital  to  her  mother  on 
the  day  of  the  governess's  departure,  hardly  a  word 
had    passed.     Nevertheless,    without    words,    the 


366  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

situation  was  clearly  understood  by  both.  A  letter 
from  Cyples  occasionally  shown  In  silence  to  An- 
nunciata  kept  the  girl  abreast  of  the  proceedings. 
Though  she  did  not  grasp  the  exact  nature  of  all 
the  legal  steps,  she  perfectly  comprehended  that  the 
issue  of  the  trial  would  depend  on  herself,  that  she 
would  be  the  principal  witness  against  her  father, 
and  that  consequently  her  role  would  be  an  ex- 
ceedingly painful  one. 

She  could  scarcely  be  said  to  shrink  from  it.  She 
shrank  from  it  even  less  than  her  mother  imagined. 
Her  love  and  admiration  for  her  mother  were  bound- 
less, and  this  testimony  which  she  was  to  give  in 
Court,  this  ordeal  which  she  was  to  suffer,  presented 
themselves  to  her  young  mind  as  it  were  in  the  light 
of  religious  acts,  and  sacrifices.  She,  who  was  by 
nature  decidedly  sentimental,  strangely  enough 
did  not  at  all  regard  her  share  of  the  matter  in  a 
sentimental  way.  Her  heart  was  extraordinarily 
hard  about  It.  She  had  taken  her  mother's  part 
with  passionate  enthusiasm.  Her  mother  had  be- 
come an  angel  and  her  father  had  become  a  devil. 
She  had  deliberately  encouraged  In  herself  a  right- 
eous and  relentless  animosity  against  her  father. 
Whenever  she  thought  of  him  she  thought  of  him 
with  bitterness;  she  forced  herself  to  think  of  him 
with  bitterness.  She  had  developed  a  holy  fanat- 
icism.    She  would  have  been  capable  of  condemning 


A  PUBLIC  APPEARANCE  367 

him,  for  his  infamy  towards  her  mother,  to  ever- 
lasting punishment  and  shame.  She  deemed  her 
mother  entirely  right  and  wise  in  bringing  the  action, 
and  in  calling  upon  her,  Annunciata,  to  end  her 
father's  career  as  a  married  man.  She  saw  no  other 
course  open  to  her  mother.  In  her  soul  she  said 
that  her  mother  would  have  been  guilty  of  cowardice 
and  worse  if  she  had  refrained  from  bringing  the 
action.  She  had  no  doubts,  no  uncertainties. 
With  the  fierce  absoluteness  of  her  years  and  of  her 
ignorance  of  the  world  and  human  nature,  she  judged 
him.  And  the  justice  of  one's  children  is  terrible. 
On  the  night  in  August  when  her  father  had  spoken 
to  her  on  the  Leas,  her  attitude  had  been,  after 
recovering  from  the  first  shock  of  seeing  him: 
*'He  dares  to  speak  to  me!"  And  she  had  fostered 
this  attitude  in  herself,  she  had  insisted  on  it  to 
herself,  in  order  to  nullify  certain  instincts  which 
the  sight  of  him  had  awakened  in  her  —  instincts 
which  she  had  thought  to  be  dead  and  buried.  And 
she  had  hurried  the  children  away,  not  (so  she  ex- 
plained to  herself)  in  obedience  to  his  command, 
but  because  she  could  not  tolerate  that  they  should 
breathe  the  same  air  as  that  monster  of  wicked- 
ness, that  torturer  of  her  angelic  mother.  She 
had  been  very  cross  with  Charlie  and  Emily  for 
venturing  to  demur  at  her  orders,  and  there  had  been 
a  little  revolt;  but  Annunciata  had  triumphed;  she 


y 


368  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

was  the  elder  sister,  and,  however  they  might  seek 
to  disguise  it,  the  rest  of  the  family  went  in  awe  of 
her.  She  had  seen  Charlie  and  Emily  to  bed,  and 
waited  alone  for  her  mother's  return.  And  even 
on  that  poignant  occasion,  Alma  and  Annunciata 
had  not  mentioned  the  adulterer.  Annunciata 
had  merely  questioned  her  mother  with  her  liquid 
eyes  and  Alma  had  replied  with  a  grave  kiss.  And 
Annunciata  knew  from  the  silence  that  her  father's 
visit  had  changed  nothing  of  her  mother's  intentions; 
and  she  was  glad. 

So  it  occurred  that  Annunciata  journeyed  that 
December  morning  to  London  with  a  proud  and 
composed  mien,  the  mien  of  one  who  is  conscious 
of  duty,  of  righteousness,  of  a  full  knowledge  of 
affairs,  and  who  is  capable  of  looking  at  life  in  a 
purely  practical  manner. 

Cyples  met  them  at  Charing  Cross.  At  the  first 
glance  Mrs.  Fearns  almost  failed  to  recognize 
him,  for  he  was  wearing  a  silk  hat  and  a  frock  coat, 
ceremonious  attire  in  which  the  Five  Towns  never 
had  the  opportunity  of  seeing  him.  He  appeared 
to  be  just  a  little  nervous  and  shy,  and  this  diffident 
demeanour  commended  the  big,  stout  man  at  once 
to  Annunciata,  who,  though  she  might  have  caught 
sight  of  him  once  or  twice  in  the  streets  of  Hanbridge, 
had  not  met  him  before  and  knew  nothing  of  his 
immense   reputation  in   his  own   circles.      He    as- 


A  PUBLIC  APPEARANCE  369 

sisted  the  ladies  to  alight,  and  put  them  into  a 
cab  which  he  had  previously  secured,  and  drove 
with  them  to  the  law  courts.  During  the  passage 
down  the  Strand  he  made  none  but  the  briefest 
remarks,  of  a  general  nature;  he  was  unrecognizable 
as  the  easy  and  ebullient  Cyples;  he  might  have 
been  going  to  a  wedding  or  a  funeral.  He  led 
them  into  the  courts  by  the  principal  entrance 
from  the  Strand,  and  had  the  strange  caprice,  as 
Mrs.  Fearns  thought  it,  of  showing  them  over  the 
great  pile  as  if  it  had  been  a  museum  and  he  the 
guide.  He  was  unhurried,  and  conversational 
now  in  a  style  gravely  cheerful.  He  told  them 
the  dimensions  of  the  great  hall,  and  the  total 
number  of  rooms  in  the  entire  building;  he  related 
to  them  the  tragic  history  of  the  architect.  Then  he 
preceded  them  upstairs  and  made  the  round  of  the 
courts,  and  outside  the  portals  of  one  court  he  said 
in  impressive  accents: 

"The  Lord  Chief  Justice  is  sitting  there." 
There     were     pomps     that     could    move     even 
Cyples. 

The  mother  and  daughter,  bewildered  by  the  corri- 
dors and  the  crowds,  followed  him  meekly  from 
point  to  point,  wondering  when  he  would  broach 
the  fearful  business  of  their  visit,  and  not  daring 
to  broach  it  themselves.  At  length,  in  a  wider 
corridor,  where  groups  of  men  were  staring  at  printed 


370  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

lists  exposed  on  stands,  they  met  a  young  man  whom 
Cyples  stopped.  The  young  man,  who  was  carry- 
ing  a  bag,  raised  his  hat,  as  much  to  Cyples 
as  to  the  ladies. 

"Give  me  my  bag,"  said  Cyples,  In  the  curt 
tone  of  one  used  to  authority. 

"Here  it  is,  sir,"  said  the  young  man,  hastily 
yielding  the  bag. 

"Court  sitting.^"  Cyples  questioned  In  a  low  voice. 
'Yes,  sir.     Just  started." 

Well,  be  about.  And  let  me  know  Instantly 
the  defence  Is  closed  In  the  case  before  ours. 
That'll  do." 

"Yes,  sir."  The  young  man  vanished  down  a 
side  corridor. 

"Now,  will  you  come  this  way,  ladies.''"  said 
Cyples,  resuming  suddenly  his  deferential  air.  And 
he  conducted  them  to  an  empty  consulting  room 
with  which  he  was  evidently  familiar,  and,  begging 
them  to  sit  down,  asked  whether  they  were  in  need 
of  anything.  Being  assured  that  they  were  not, 
he  placed  his  hat  carefully  on  the  table,  sat  down 
himself,  and  opened  his  bag. 

"Everything  Is  In  order,"  he  said,  looking  at 
Mrs.  Fearns.  "I  had  quite  a  long  conference  with 
our  leader  this  morning,  and  he  Is  very  hopeful 
that  we  shall  get  the  —  er  —  full  decree;  very 
hopeful.     Anyhow  he'll  make  a  good  fight  for  it, 


A  PUBLIC  APPEARANCE  371 

and  at  the  worst  a  decree  of  judicial  separation  is  a 
certainty.  You  see,  as  I  have  explained  to  you 
before,  we're  trying  for  the  full  decree,  but  the 
judge  has  power,  if  he  refuses  us  that,  to  grant  us  a 
judicial  separation,  which  we  really  aren't  asking 
for.     You  understand,  don't  you.?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  said  Mrs.  Fearns.  "Then  you  really 
think  I  shall  succeed  in  getting  a  divorce?  You 
think  the  judge  will  regard  it  as  sufficient  cruelty.'*" 

Cyples  was  astounded  at  the  freedom  with  which 
even  the  nicest  women  will  employ  unpleasant 
words  to  say  what  they  mean.  His  own  delicacy 
had  prevented  him  from  uttering  the  word  "divorce" 
in  Annunciata's  presence,  and  as  for  the  word 
"cruelty,"  it  sounded  shocking  and  monstrous  from 
Mrs.  Fearns's  lips.  Yet  she  had  spoken  with  ap- 
parently the  blandest  unconcern.  And  Annunciata 
was  looking  her  mother  straight  in  the  face, 
unashamed.  Really,  women  were  an  ever  fresh 
source  of  surprise  to  even  the  most  experienced 
and  inured  males. 

"I  think  so,"  said  he,  unfolding  a  large  white 
paper.  "If  you  ask  me  my  opinion,  I  should  say 
that  the  chances  are  distinctly  favourable,  distinctly 
sol  But  the  point  Is  a  new  one  —  at  least  in  certain 
aspects."  He  half  turned  to  Annunciata.  "Now 
if  I  might  suggest,  it  would  be  well  for  both  of  you 


372  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

to  stay  here  quietly  until  you  are  actually  needed. 
There  is  no  necessity  for  you  to  be  in  court  except 
while  you  are  actually  giving  your  evidence  —  es- 
pecially Miss  Fearns,"  he  added. 

"Quite  so,"  Mrs.  Fearns  concurred.  "We  should 
much  prefer  that." 

"Yes,  much,"  said  Annunciata,  behaving  herself 
most  deceivingly  like  a  woman  of  the  world. 

"Here  is  a  note  of  your  evidence,  Miss  Fearns," 
said  Cyples  in  a  low,  solemn  voice.  "Perhaps  you 
will  look  carefully  through  it  to  see  that  it  is  all 
right."  And  he  handed  her  the  large  white  paper, 
with  the  legend  in  large  caligraphy  at  the  top. 
"  Proof  of  Annunciata  Fearns." 

Annunciata,  in  the  primness  of  her  dark  gray 
coat  and  skirt,  seated  there  so  calmly  in  that  bare 
formidable  chamber,  did  not  realize  how  nervous 
and  distracted  she  was.  She  imagined  that  this 
new,  strange,  mysterious,  hard,  masculine  universe 
in  which  she  suddenly  found  herself  had  produced 
on  her  nothing  but  the  most  superficial  impression, 
and  that  her  calm  was  unimpaired.  And  even  when 
she  attempted  to  decipher  and  make  sense  of  the 
contents  of  the  paper,  and  failed,  she  would  not 
admit  to  herself  the  sway  of  any  unusual  emotion. 
She  forced  her  eyes  to  run  along  the  lines,  in  a 
semblance  of  reading,  and  after  due  delay  she  re- 
marked to  Cyples: 


A  PUBLIC  APPEARANCE  373 

"Yes.  This  is  perfectly  correct."  And  let  the 
paper  fall  on  her  knee. 

It  puzzled  her  how  Cyples  had  obtained  and 
caused  to  be  reduced  to  writing  the  particulars  of 
all  that  she  knew  concerning  her  father's  conduct 
and  the  conduct  of  Renee  on  the  catastrophic  night 
and  the  next  morning.  Certainly  she  had  told  her 
mother  everything,  and  Cyples  had  seen  her  mother 
immediately  afterwards,  and,  at  a  later  date,  during 
a  professional  visit  of  Cyples  to  Sandgate,  a  few 
questions  had  been  put  to  her.  But  that  was  all. 
And  lo!  the  precise  details  of  her  evidence  filled  a 
large  sheet  of  paper.  She  noticed  with  a  start  that 
her  mother  was  perusing  a  similar  paper.  She 
picked  up  her  own  paper  again,  and  now  succeeded 
in  reading  it.  The  facts  were  recorded  perfectly 
correctly.  But  the  sight  of  them  set  down  in  crude 
direct  language,  in  black  and  white,  disconcerted 
her  excessively.     Qualms  of  terror  visited  her. 

Cyples  left  the  room. 

"Are  you  all  right,  Ann.'"'  her  mother  asked, 
anxiously  scrutinizing  her. 

"Yes,  mother,  of  course  I  am,"  she  replied  in  a 
cold  voice. 

And  she  resumed  her  courage,  picturing  to  herself 
the  aspect  of  the  court  and  the  demeanour  of  the 
persons  present  therein.  She  had  never  seen  a 
tribunal;   but   she   had   seen   pictures   of   tribunals, 


374         W'HOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

and  portraits  of  judges  and  barristers,  and  the  look 
of  the  barristers  whom  she  had  encountered  that 
morning  in  the  corridors  confirmed  a  fanciful, 
child-like  conception  which  she  had  of  the  unhuman 
quality  of  justice.  With  her  characteristic  lack  of 
imagination,  she  failed  to  appreciate  the  fact  that 
human  nature  could  no  more  be  kept  out  of  a  divorce 
court  than  air  could  be  kept  out  of  it.  In  her  mind 
she  foreshadowed  something  arid,  formal,  awe- 
inspiring,  almost  supernatural,  and  perhaps  ter- 
rifying; but  not  emotional  with  simple  human  feel- 
ing. If  she  could  have  analyzed  her  vague  ideas 
she  would  have  perceived  that  she  expected  herself, 
and  perhaps  her  mother,  alone  to  be  human  in  the 
court,  and  that  she  was  relying  on  the  austere 
majesty  of  legal  procedure  to  lend  to  her  weakness  the 
strength  which  it  needed,  or  to  shame  her  into 
frigidity.  In  a  word  she  envisaged  the  ordeal  that 
lay  before  her  in  a  manner  which  was  not  merely 
inadequate  but  false. 

The  public  gallery  of  the  court  was  neither  more 
nor  less  full  than  usual,  but  the  ground  floor  cer- 
tainly showed  signs  of  a  special  animation  and  in- 
terest when  the  case  of  Fearns  v.  Fearns  was  called, 
about  three  quarters  of  an  hour  before  luncheon.  It 
had  become  known,  through  the  agency  of  either 
solicitors'  clerks  or  barristers'  clerks,  that  the  case 
of  Fearns  v.  Fearns  would  be  delectable,  from  both 


A  PUBLIC  APPEARANCE  375 

a  scandalous  and  a  legal  point  of  view.  The  junior 
bar  was  richly  represented,  and  the  floating  clerical 
population  of  the  courts,  which  devotes  its  ample 
spare  time  to  the  tasting  of  tit-bits  of  all  kinds, 
crowded  the  gangways  and  the  witnesses'  benches. 
The  Press  Association's  shorthand  writer  prepared 
himself  to  produce  a  report  which  had  been  specially 
ordered  by  the  Staffordshire  Signal,  and  which 
would  appear  piece  by  piece  in  successive  editions 
of  the  daily  organ  of  the  Five  Towns,  under  some 
such  heading  as  "Local  Divorce  Case.  Astonishing 
Revelations."  Several  Five  Town  faces,  quite 
unconnected  with  the  action,  were  to  be  seen  In 
court.  Business,  by  a  happy  chance,  had  summoned 
these  faces  to  London  at  the  very  time  when  Fearns 
v.  Fearns  appeared  In  the  Cause  List.  The  court 
was  filled  with  a  pleasant  anticipation,  an  antici- 
pation which  was  without  misgivings,  for  there 
could  be  no  fear  that  the  judge  would  spoil  every- 
body's pleasure  by  deciding  to  hear  the  evidence 
in  camera.  According  to  rumour  —  and  rumour 
was  correct  —  there  could  be  nothing  in  the  case 
that  might  not  be  listened  to  by  all  the  world  and 
read  without  abridgment  in  evening  trains  or  at 
morning  tables.  There  would  be  nothing  to  shock 
the  most  easily  shocked  nation  in  Europe,  no 
disgusting  physical  details,  no  perverse  eccentrici- 
ties, no  history  of  disease;  merely  the  spectacle  of  a 


376  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

young  virgin  compelled  to  relate,  in  the  presence  of 
public  and  press,  exactly  how  she  had  caught  her 
father  in  adultery.  It  was  an  affair  not  by  any 
means  to  be  missed,  an  affair  which  it  would  have 
been  wrong  to  keep  from  a  race  at  large  accustomed 
to  such  things.  It  was  neither  a  bull  fight  nor  an 
indecency,  and  no  one  could  take  exception  to  it. 

The  initiated  looked  around  for  the  heroine  and 
the  outraged  wife,  and,  the  sight  being  for  the 
moment  denied  to  them,  they  comforted  themselves 
with  the  thought  of  the  dramatic  entry  which  these 
women  must  ultimately  make.  And  in  the  mean- 
time they  could  see  Charles  Fearns,  who  sat  in  the 
well  of  the  court,  with  Apreece  on  one  side  of  him 
and  young  Bowes  on  the  other,  and  Lawrence  Rid- 
ware  next  to  Bowes.  Fearns  v.  Fearns  was  a  truly 
important  case;  its  importance  could  be  judged  by 
the  mere  fact  that  the  venerable  and  astute  Apreece, 
the  guiding  brain  of  Apreece  and  Company,  Fearns*s 
London  agents,  had  thought  well  to  be  present  in 
person.  Fearns  wanted  support,  and  all  the  support 
he  could  get,  and  he  had  asked  Apreece  to  attend 
to  the  matter  himself;  he  had  not  had  to  ask  twice. 
It  was  apparently  for  the  sake  of  support  too,  that 
Fearns,  in  defiance  of  Lawrence's  wish,  had  insisted 
on  Lawrence  accompanying  him  to  London.  Law- 
rence had  suggested  Pennington,  but  Fearns  would 
not  hear  of  Pennington.     Fearns  had  never  even 


A  PUBLIC  APPEAR.A.NCE  377 

mentioned  his  divorce  to  Pennington.  Moreover 
he  required  some  one  to  whom  he  could  talk  as  an 
equal,  some  one  who  had  a  brain  beyond  documents 
and  ledgers.  He  had  talked  incessantly  about  the 
case  for  several  days,  and  Lawrence,  on  his  part, 
had  spoken  with  a  bitter  freedom  that  had  angered 
his  employer.  But  Lawrence  did  not  care.  Since 
the  failure  of  his  own  action  for  divorce,  Lawrence 
had  become  morose  and  defiant:  it  was  his  way  of 
restoring  his  dignity:  and  he  was  pushing  forward 
the  preliminaries  of  a  fresh  action  in  the  Scottish 
Courts  with  a  feeling  that  might  be  fairly  described 
as  virulence.  He  bore  malice  against  Fearns  for 
having  forced  him  to  breathe  again  the  atmosphere 
of  the  matrimonial  court,  which  poisoned  him  by  its 
humiliating  memories,  and  he  scarcely  concealed 
this  malice.  Yet  Fearns  did  not  seem  to  care.  All 
that  Fearns  seemed  to  demand  was  companionship. 
Behind  the  Fearns  group  was  one  of  the  two  King's 
Counsel  engaged;  the  other  was  close  by,  with  Cyples 
at  hand.  Expense  had  not  been  spared  by  either  of 
the  parties,  and  these  aged  forensic  ornaments  of 
the  Probate,  Divorce  and  Admiralty  Division  were 
of  the  costly  kind,  the  kind  that  lends  lustre  to  a 
trial  and  that,  beneath  a  mark  of  exaggerated  defer- 
ence, does  not  fear  to  try  to  intimidate  the  judge 
himself.  The  chosen  of  Cyples,  with  his  junior  at 
his  back,  and  Cyples  and  Cyples's  agent  in  front  of 


378  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

him,  opened  Mrs.  Fearns's  case  with  cautious  elabo- 
rateness. The  experts  instantly  perceived  the  di- 
rection of  the  line  upon  which  he  was  moving.  If 
the  President  of  the  Division  had  a  slight  weakness, 
it  was  his  tendency  to  read  new  meanings  into  old 
precedents,  while  professing,  and  sincerely  feeling, 
a  deep  respect  for  those  precedents.  In  order  that 
Mrs.  Fearns  might  win  her  action,  the  legal  signifi- 
cance of  the  word  "cruelty"  would  have  to  be 
somewhat  broadened,  and  already,  even  at  that 
early  stage,  the  eminent  pleader  was  subtly  prepar- 
ing the  judge's  mind.  And  the  judge  at  intervals 
raised  himself  up  In  his  chair  according  to  his  habit, 
and  said  to  himself:  "This  man  imagines  he  is 
influencing  me."  And  nevertheless  the  judge  was 
indeed  being  Influenced. 

And  when  the  King's  Counsel,  in  his  mild,  conver- 
sational tone,  had  laid  down  the  foundations  of  his 
argument,  there  was  some  whispering  in  each  of 
the  opposing  groups,  and  then  the  name  of  Alma 
Fearns  resounded  in  the  court  and  in  the  corridor, 
first  loud  and  then  faint,  and  Mrs.  Fearns  was  led 
in  by  a  clerk  deputed  to  that  office  by  Cyples.  She 
was  absolutely  self-possessed.  She  gave  her  un- 
important evidence,  and  produced  the  letters 
which  she  had  received  from  her  husband,  without 
an  external  trace  of  emotion.  She  caught  her 
husband's  glance,  and  did  not  flinch.     She  breathed 


A  PUBLIC  APPEARANCE  379 

the  name  of  Annunciata,  and  her  voice  did  not 
tremble.  And  after  the  barristers  had  done  with 
her,  she  did  not  forget  to  bow  to  the  judge  in  leav- 
ing the  box.  She  impressed  everybody.  Cyples's 
eye  shone  with  appreciation  of  her  fine,  stern  quali- 
ties as  an  ideal  petitioner.  Her  ordeal  finished,  she 
walked  straight  out  of  court,  passing  as  quickly  as 
she  could,  and  with  averted  gaze,  along  the  peopled 
gangways.  Between  the  inner  and  the  outer  swing- 
doors  Annunciata  was  standing,  the  clerk  by  her  side. 
The  inner  door  closed  with  a  faint  bang.  And  at  the 
same  moment  there  came  the  voice  of  the  usher: 

"Annunciata  Fearns." 

"Go,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Fearns.  The  clerk  held 
the  door  open,  and  Annunciata  went  into  the  court. 
Her  mother  followed  her  a  few  steps,  and  then 
halted  near  the  door. 

The  girl  blushed  deeply  as  she  moved  forward, 
obeying  the  pompous  gesture  of  the  black  usher, 
the  only  being  whom  at  first  she  clearly  distinguished 
in  what  was  to  her  a  confused  mass  of  faces.  He 
directed  her  up  the  steps  to  the  witness  box;  and, 
having  once  stumbled  to  her  appointed  position, 
she  turned  and  fronted  the  assemblage  with  tight 
lips  and  frightened  eyes.  The  court-room  did  not 
at  all  coincide  with  her  vision  of  it.  Every  gaze  was 
fixed  on  her.  And  what  rude,  bold,  hard,  human 
glances!     She  looked  at  the  public  gallery  and  saw 


38o  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

what  might  have  been  the  audience  of  a  theatre 
gallery,  examining  her  with  intent  and  leering  curi- 
osity. The  thing  about  this  audience  which  most 
annoyed  her  was  that  it  was  ill  dressed,  shabby,  an 
audience  of  loafers.  Her  modesty  was  outraged 
by  the  implacable,  ignoble,  prying  stares  that  beset 
her  from  the  gallery.  And,  below,  it  was  not  much 
better.  The  barristers  had  a  terrible  air;  they  seemed 
to  be  banded  together  for  her  undoing.  And  be- 
hind the  barristers  was  another  public,  among  which 
she  recognized  several  acquaintances.  There  was, 
for  Instance,  Mark  Ridware.  Had  he  come  simply 
to  gape  at  her.''  Was  it  possible  that  people  had 
come  all  the  way  to  the  court  to  appease  a  disgrace- 
ful inquisitiveness  concerning  her  family's  private 
affairs?  She  saw  also  a  notorious  middle-aged 
spinster  from  Bursley,  whose  indefatigable  tongue 
was  famous  in  the  Five  Towns.  The  idea  that  the 
idle  and  wealthy  spinster  had  journeyed  to  London 
in  order  to  assist  at  the  shaming  of  the  Fearns  pierced 
Annunciata  like  an  arrow,  changing  on  a  sudden  her 
whole  estimate  of  human  nature. 

She  thought  the  usher  was  a  horrid  man.  She 
did  not  like  his  untidy  beard,  and  when  he  gave  her 
the  black  Bible,  and  threw  a  form  of  words  at  her  In 
a  thick,  unpleasant  voice,  the  aspect  of  his  hands 
offended  her.  She  took  the  volume  and  kissed  it 
through  her  veil  and  the  usher  forced  her  to  kiss  it 


A  PUBLIC  APPEARANCE  381 

again.  She  had  to  raise  her  veil  in  the  presence  of 
the  entire  audience,  and  humbly  obey  the  usher, 
whom  she  could  plainly  perceive  to  be  a  most 
commonplace  creature  in  a  torn  and  dirty  gown;  the 
usher  was  not  nearly  so  distinguished  as  Martin, 
the  gardener  at  Bleakridge,  and  here  he  was  issuing 
his  instructions  to  her,  while  the  audience  waited  in 
shuffling  silence.  As  she  was  kissing  the  Bible  she 
caught  the  eye  of  the  judge,  and  even  the  judge 
appeared  to  be  regarding  her  with  a  masculine  and 
impious  interest.  There  was  not  the  grave  and  god- 
like ceremonial  of  justice  which  she  had  expected. 
All  that  met  her  gaze  hurt  her  susceptibilities.  She 
sought  her  mother's  form  where  she  had  left  it  near 
the  door,  and  it  was  no  longer  there.  Mrs.  Fearns, 
unable  to  bear  the  sight  of  Annunciata  solitary  in  the 
witness-box,  under  the  fire  of  that  coarse  curiosity, 
had  retreated  to  the  corridor.  Then  Annunciata 
saw  her  father,  sitting  below  her  in  front  of  the  old, 
clean-shaven  barristers.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  floor,  his  legs  stretched  out,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.  The  expression  on  his  features  was  one 
of  intense  pain  and  grief. 

And  suddenly  she  was  aware  of  a  desire,  at  once 
powerful  and  irrational,  to  rush  down  to  him  and 
fold  him  in  her  arms  and  let  his  arms  enfold  her. 
She  remembered  how  sometimes  at  meals  she  used 
to  clasp  his  great  hairy  fist,  out  of  sheer  affection, 


382  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

and  then  caress  the  back  of  his  hand  as  it  lay  im- 
movable on  the  table.  And  as  she  stood  in  the 
witness-box  he  seemed  to  her  strangely  and  surpris- 
ingly the  most  lovable  man  in  the  world,  and  she 
forgot  his  misdeeds;  his  misdeeds  lost  importance. 
She  choked  with  an  emotion  which  she  could 
not  comprehend. 

One  of  the  aged  barristers  was  waving  a  finger  at 
her. 

"Your  name  is  Annunciata  Fearns.'"' 

"Yes,"  she  whispered. 

"And  you  are  the  daughter  of  the  petitioner  and 
the  respondent  in  this  case.^"' 

"Yes." 

Every  pair  of  eyes  in  the  court  was  glaring  at 
her. 

She  saw  her  father  rise  from  his  seat  and  walk 
out.  He  pushed  violently  and  as  it  were  angrily 
through  the  people  obstructing  the  gangway.  Her 
glance  followed  him.  Then  she  gathered  that  the 
aged  barrister  was  addressing  her  again,  and  she 
recognized,  in  a  confused  series  of  phrases  meaning- 
less to  her  brain,  the  sole  word  "governess."  She 
gazed  blankly  and  stupidly  around  her,  with  smart- 
ing eyes  and  a  lump  in  her  throat.  The  aged 
barrister  addressed  her  a  second  time.  Her  lips 
did  not  move. 

The  judge  coughed  slightly,  and  turned  a  little 


A  PUBLIC  APPEARANCE  383 

sideways  on  his  chair  so  as  to  look  at  her;  and  she 
looked  at  him,  expectantly. 

*'You  must  answer,"  said  the  judge,  in  a  kind, 
firm,  avuncular  voice.  He  did  not  resemble  a 
judge  to  her  in  the  least.  He  was  scarcely  six  feet 
away  from  her,  and  merely  a  mysteriously  and  dis- 
concertingly shrewd  old  man  in  a  rather  ridiculous 
headgear.     Her  eyes  continued  their  appeal  to  him. 

"You  must  answer,"  he  repeated. 

Something  broke  within  her. 

"What?"  she  asked  him  in  a  simple,  very  quiet, 
colloquial  tone.     "Here.?     Before  all  these  people.?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  judge. 

"Oh,  no!"  she  cried.  "I  can't!  I  didn't  know!" 
And  in  the  unreflecting  madness  of  her  torment  she 
sprang  down  the  steps  from  the  witness-box,  like 
a  wild  deer  that  terror  has  made  desperate  and 
dangerous.  At  the  lowest  step  she  stumbled,  and 
Lawrence,  jumping  to  his  feet,  caught  her.  Law- 
rence was  the  last  person  fitted  by  nature  to  carry  a 
fainting  girl  out  of  a  crowded  hall,  but  he  did  it, 
knowing  not  how  he  did  it.  And  there  ensued  that 
rare  and  thrilling  phenomenon,  beloved  of  all  pub- 
lics, a  genuine  "scene  in  court."  Within  an  hour  or 
so  it  was  on  the  contents  bill  of  every  evening  paper 
in  the  three  kingdoms,  including,  of  course,  that  of 
the  Staffordshire  Signal. 

Annunciata  did  not  actually  swoon.     In  the  cor- 


384  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

ridor  she  fell  into  her  mother's  arms.  Her  father  had 
gone  to  the  bar  to  find  strength  in  a  brandy  and  soda. 

"What  is  it,  my  darling?"  asked  Mrs.  Fearns  in 
desolate  accents.     "Mr.  Ridware!" 

"Oh,  mother, "  Annunciata  moaned.  "  I've  ruined 
you.     Let  me  go  back. "     And  she  burst  into  sobs. 

The  corridor  was  blocked  in  a  few  seconds  with 
a  crowd  eager  to  see  anything  that  was  to  be  seen. 
Charles  Fearns,  oblivious,  gulped  down  his  brandy 
and  soda  in  the  bar  with  the  Gothic  arches.  And 
the  imperturbable  judge,  the  hour  being  within 
ten  minutes  of  lunch,  adjourned  the  sitting  after  a 
word  or  two  with  the  two  King's  Counsel.  Cyples 
and  Lawrence,  aided  by  sundry  liege  clerks  and  some 
officials,  got  the  women  away  to  a  private  room, 
where  Annunciata  seemed  quickly  to  resume  all 
her  self-possession. 

"If  you  will  leave  me  alone  with  her  for  a  few 
minutes,"  Mrs.  Fearns  murmured  to  Cyples.  And 
Cyples  and  Lawrence  withdrew. 

Mrs.  Fearns  smiled  gently  on  her  daughter. 

"Mother!"  Annunciata  asked  grievously.  "What 
are  we  to  do?  If  I  go  back  now,  I  shall  be  all  right. 
It  was  —  I  don't  know  what  it  was.     But  I  am  better 


now. " 


The  mother  shook  her  head. 

"No,  dear,"  she  said  very  quietly.     "I  have  been 
wrong;    that's     all.     I've    been    quite    wrong.     I 


A  PUBLIC  APPEARANCE  385 

ought  not  to  have  put  you  to  such  a  test.  I  didn't 
realize  it  would  be  quite  so  bad  as  it  was." 

"But  what  shall  we  do?" 

"We  will  go  home,"  said  Mrs.  Fearns.  "There's 
nothing  else  to  do.  We'll  just  go  home  to  the 
children." 

She  opened  the  door.  Only  Lawrence  was  out- 
side. Cyples  had  vanished  to  confer  with  his  counsel 
and  to  assure  them  that  the  crisis  was  over  and 
that  the  hearing  could  be  proceeded  with  after  lunch. 

"Mr.  Ridware,"  said  Alma,  "can  you  get  us  a 
cab?" 

Lawrence  hesitated.  "Certainly,"  he  replied. 
"Where  do  you  want  to  go  to?" 

"Charing  Cross,"  said  Alma.  "We  are  returning 
home  at  once." 

"But  Mr.  Cyples  doesn't " 

"Perhaps  you  will  kindly  tell  Mr.  Cyples,  will 
you?  Tell  him  I  dared  not  stop  here  another 
moment,  and  that  I  give  up  the  case.  Pll  write  to 
him  to-night." 

Lawrence  noticed  that  she  was  breathing  hard. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.  "If  I  may,  I'll  see  you  to 
the  station.     You'll  be  needing  something  to  eat." 

In  the  restaurant  of  the  Law  Courts,  Mark  Rid- 
ware was  eating  a  mutton  chop  at  a  table  by  him- 
self when  Cyples  came  up  to  him  with  a  worried  and 
preoccupied  air.      They  knew  each  other  slightly. 


386  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

"Good-day,  Mr.  Ridware,"  Cyples  began,  "I 
suppose  you  haven't  seen  Mrs.  Fearns,  have  you?'' 

"No,"  replied  Mark.  "I've  been  looking  all 
over  the  place  for  my  brother,  without  finding  him, 
and  I've  seen  nothing  of  her." 

"Curious!"     Cyples   muttered   reflectively. 

"Miss  Fearns  isn't  ill,  I  hope?" 

"No.  She  recovered  immediately.  A  very  brave 
girl." 

"Then  they're  probably  gone  out  somewhere  to 
have  lunch,  and  they'll  be  coming  back  soon." 

"I  expect  so,"  said  Cyples. 

"Better  eat  something  yourself,  Mr.  Cyples," 
Mark  suggested  in  a  friendly  manner. 

And  Cyples  sat  down,  and  ordered  cold  meat 
to  be  brought  instantly,  together  with  half  a  pint 
of  bitter,  and  tucked  the  corner  of  a  serviette  be- 
tween his  chin  and  his  ample  collar. 

"Very  unfortunate,  that  little  scene!"  Mark 
hazarded,  determined  to  talk. 

"Yes, "  said  Cyples.  "Yet  I  think  we  took  every 
precaution." 

"It's  a  pity  that  divorce  cases  can't  be  heard  in 
private." 

"In  private!"  Cyples  exclaimed,  somewhat 
shocked.  "Justice  must  be  public,  Mr.  Ridware. 
All  sorts  of  abuses  might  creep  in,  otherwise. " 

"What   abuses?"   Mark   blandly   asked,   and   as 


A  PUBLIC  APPEARANCE  387 

Cyples  made  no  response  he  continued  In  his  best  con- 
versational, persuasive  style:  "You  see  a  divorce  case 
is  different  from  ordinary  cases.  Why  shouldn't  a 
divorce  case  be  heard  in  private  if  all  parties  consent  ?" 

"Well,"  said  Cyples  "it  wouldn't  do.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  they  do  keep  the  divorce  court  as 
private  as  they  can." 

"They  might  succeed  a  little  better,  I  think," 
said  Mark.  "That  court  this  morning  was  like  a 
blessed  theatre.  It's  a  regular  spectacle,  that's 
what  it  is  —  one  of  the  stock  sights  of  London. 
Why  wasn't  I  stopped  from  going  in.''  I  just 
walked  straight  in,  and  no  one  said  a  word." 

"Hm!"  Cyples  muttered. 

"It  would  have  upset  a  man,  to  say  nothing  of  a 
young  girl,"  said  Mark,  further.  "It's  a  most 
singular  thing  that  some  sorts  of  divorce  cases  can 
be  heard  in  private,  and  others  can't.  If  the  case 
is  likely  to  upset  the  susceptibilities  of  the  public, 
then  the  judge  will  clear  the  court  like  anything. 
But  if  the  public  is  only  likely  to  upset  the  suscepti- 
bilities of  the  parties  principally  concerned,  the 
judge  is  powerless.  How  do  you  justify  that.? 
And  then  there's  the  newspapers.  They  ought  not 
to  be  allowed  to  print  reports  of  divorce  cases.  As 
things  are,  some  of  the  most  respectable  papers  in 
London,  papers  that  are  like  people  who  wouldn't 
miss  going  to  church  on  Sundays  for  untold  gold, 


388  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

make  a  specialty  of  divorce  cases;  live  on  them, 
indeed,  except  in  the  silly  season,  when  they  have  to 
find  other  food." 

"This   is   a   free   country,"   said   Cyples.     "One 
can't  muzzle " 

"It  isn't  a  free  country  at  all,"  Mark  interrupted 
him,  with  a  certain  heat  which  was  characteristic 
of  him  when  in  the  midst  of  an  argument.  "Let 
a  newspaper  try  to  report  a  divorce  case  that  had 
been  heard  in  camera,  and  you'd  soon  see  if  it  was 
a  free  country.  Now  I  lived  in  Paris  once  for  a 
year  or  two.  You'll  see  pretty  nearly  everything 
in  a  French  newspaper,  but  you'll  never  see  a  report 
of  a  divorce  case." 
^ Why  not?" 

Because  it's  forbidden.  And  a  jolly  good  thing 
too!  In  England,  what  with  the  sickening  curiosity 
of  idlers  — Oh  yes!  I  know  I'm  in  a  glass  house!  — 
and  what  with  the  newspapers  waiting  to  give  names 
and  addresses  and  everything  that's  really  tasty, 
a  witness  in  a  divorce  case  is  likely  to  be  frightened 
out  of  his  life.  And  that  doesn't  help  justice,  does 
it.?  The  truth  is  that  justice  is  sacrificed  to  the  las- 
civious tastes  of  the  great  enlightened  British 
public.  If  that  girl  had  been  put  in  a  room 
with  the  judge  and  the  lawyers  and  nobody 
else,  especially  no  reporters  and  no  loafers,  she 
wouldn't  have  had  to  go  through  what  she  did." 


A  PUBLIC  APPEARANCE  389 

"Pooh!"  said  Cyples,  with  his  mouth  full  of  meat. 
"She  only  had  a  fit  of  nerves.  She'll  be  right 
enough  this  afternoon." 

"That's  not  the  point.    Hallo !    Here's  Lawrence. " 

Lawrence  approached  nervously. 

"I've  been  looking  for  you,  Mr.  Cyples,"  said 
he.  "Mrs.  Fearns  and  Miss  Fearns  have  gone  back 
to  Folkestone.  Mrs.  Fearns  asked  me  to  tell  you. 
She'll  write  you  to-night.  She  says  she'll  withdraw 
from  the  case,  give  it  up." 

Cyples  lowered  his  half-raised  glass. 

"Gone    back    to !"   he     exclaimed,   aghast. 

"Well,  I'm  damned!  Well,  I  am  damned!  She 
asked  you  to  tell  me?  .  .  .  Damn  mc  if  lever 
act  for  a  woman  again!" 

Mark  signalled  a  private  grimace  to  his  brother, 
and  he  thought:  "It's  not  your  day  out  to-day, 
Cyples,  my  boy!" 

After  lunch  a  formal  verdict  for  the  respondent 
was  entered  in  Fearns  v.  Fearns.  The  venerable 
judge  and  the  venerable  counsel  mused  for  a  few 
moments  upon  the  strangeness  of  women,  and  then 
they  completely  forgot  the  case.  The  public  con- 
sidered itself  robbed.  And  Cyples  went  back  to 
the  Five  Towns  a  beaten  man,  with  a  grudge  against 
the  universe.  In  the  same  train  was  Charles  Fearns, 
in  whose  breast  hope  blossomed  once  more. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    SOLUTION 

NEARLY  three  years  later,  in  the  dusk  of  a 
Saturday  evening  in  autumn,  Lawrence 
Ridware  sat  alone  in  the  parlour  of  a 
house  in  Knype  Road,  Hanbridge,  near  the  new 
Hanbridge  Park.  His  history  in  the  meantime  had 
been  simple  and  characteristic.  After  the  failure 
of  his  divorce  action  in  the  English  courts,  the  idea 
had  possessed  him  of  leaving  the  Five  Towns  for- 
ever and  settling  in  Glasgow.  But  his  native 
lethargy  in  front  of  an  uncommenced  enterprise, 
his  instinctive  unwillingness  to  begin,  had  kept  him 
in  Staifordshire.  And  rather  than  give  notice  to 
Charles  Fearns  and  seek  new  employment  in  the 
city  of  his  mother,  where  his  furniture  and  books 
lay,  and  where  he  was  known,  he  had  doggedly  lived 
through  and  lived  down  the  unpleasant  notoriety 
which  Phyllis's  disclosure  in  the  witness  box  had 
brought  about.  It  was  simpler  to  do  that  than  to 
move.  Nevertheless,  stung  to  an  active  and  in- 
curable hatred  of  his  wife,  he  had  instituted  a  new 
action  against  her  In  Scotland.     Enlightened  by  her 

390 


THE  SOLUTION  391 

evidence  as  to  the  line  of  her  defence,  he  had  pro- 
cured further  evidence  of  his  own  to  rebut  it,  and  he 
had  triumphantly  won  the  action.  Phyllis's  rancour, 
coupled  with  the  singular  jealousies  between  the 
English  and  the  Scottish  courts,  and  the  mediaeval 
state  of  the  law  concerning  illegitimate  children, 
had  cost  him  after  all  nothing  but  a  few  hundreds 
of  pounds  and  his  reputation  as  an  entirely  respecta- 
ble man  in  the  Five  Towns.  He  had  achieved  his 
object,  freedom.  Soon  afterwards,  Phyllis's  mother 
died,  and  Phyllis  departed  to  London,  an  injured 
woman  to  the  last.  She  was  no  more  seen  in  the 
Five  Towns.  She  disappeared  as  completely  as 
Renee  Souchon  had  disappeared. 

Then  Lawrence's  ageing  cousin  Sarah  fell  ill. 
Her  heart  was  wrong  —  angina  pectoris  —  and  she 
had  an  inclination  to  dropsy.  She  could  no  longer 
live  by  herself.  The  sole  persons  upon  whom  she 
had  any  claim  were  Lawrence  and  Mark,  and  Law- 
rence accepted  her.  He  did  not  hesitate  for  an 
instant.  Sending  at  length  for  his  furniture  and 
books  from  Glasgow,  he  took  the  small  house  in 
Knype  Road  and  established  himself  and  her.  Her 
condition  varied.  Sometimes  she  was  well  enough 
to  render  the  house  almost  uninhabitable  for  both 
Lawrence  and  the  servant.  Sometimes  she  was 
ill  enough  to  occupy  all  their  combined  energies 
as  nurses.     Irritability   was    one   symptom  of   her 


392  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

disease.  Occasionally  her  nights  were  awful.  Still, 
Lawrence  was  not  altogether  unhappy.  He  had 
probed  life.  He  had  attained  calm.  He  was  per- 
forming what  he  conceived  to  be  his  duty.  He 
was  intellectually  and  morally  free.  He  had  his 
books.  He  saw  Mark  now  and  then.  He  had 
deliberately  discarded  the  most  disturbing  element 
in  existence.  Then  Cousin  Sarah  grew  steadily 
worse.  There  had  recently  come  a  moment  when 
he  had  been  forced  to  decide  whether  he  should  send 
his  cousin  to  the  hospital  or  engage  a  nurse  from 
the  Nurses'  Home  attached  to  the  County  Hospital 
at  Pirehill.  He  engaged  the  nurse.  She  had  arrived 
that  Saturday  afternoon.  She  was  upstairs  with 
her  patient,  and  he  was  expecting  her  to  come 
down  to  him  and  report. 

He  had  to  wait  considerable  time,  and  putting 
a  book  which  he  had  been  reading  on  a  pile  of  other 
books  on  the  table,  he  stepped  to  the  window 
and  gazed  out,  drumming  on  the  pane.  Exactly 
opposite  lived  the  doctor,  who  called  in  when  he 
could,  at  odd  hours,  to  see  this  conveniently 
situated  patient. 

Then  Lawrence  heard  the  door  of  the  sitting 
room  open,  and  a  step.  And  he  turned  to  meet  the 
nurse. 

"Well.'"'  he  demanded,  with  an  equable,  friendly 
smile. 


THE  SOLUTION  393 

"  She  seems  a  little  better  this  evening,"  said 
the  nurse  brightly. 

"How  long  do  you  think  she'll  last?"  Lawrence 
murmured. 

The  nurse,  who  was  young  and  inexperienced, 
put  on  a  grave  meditative  expression.  "Perhaps 
about  two  months,"  said  she.  The  doctor  had 
intimated  as  much. 

"Won't  you  sit  down  for  a  few  minutes.?"  Law- 
rence suggested.  "The  servant  is  up  with  her, 
isn't  she?" 

The  nurse  nodded,  and  sat. 

They  were  old  acquaintances,  she  and  Lawrence. 
Her  name  was  Annunciata  Fearns.  The  history  of 
the  Fearns  family  had  been  as  simple  as  Lawrence's 
own.  And  Annunciata  had  made  that  history. 
She  it  was  who  had  stood  between  the  parents,  and 
she  stepped  away  so  that  they  might  meet  face  to 
face.  Charles  Fearns  had  realized  his  wish.  A  few 
weeks  after  the  celebrated  scene  in  court,  articles 
of  peace  were  signed  between  him  and  Alma.  Alma 
surrendered.  Alma  forgave;  she  forgave  uncon- 
ditionally, but  she  forgave  with  proud  dignity,  and 
Fearns  poured  out  humiliation  on  himself.  It  be- 
came known  in  the  Five  Towns  that  the  Fearns's 
house  at  Bleakridge  was  to  be  sold.  After  the  sale 
the  news  that  Fearns  had  bought  a  house  at  Sneyd, 
the   fashionable  residential  village  which  lies  three 


394         WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

miles  south  of  the  Five  Towns.  And  then  people 
whispered  that  Alma  was  in  the  new  house,  with 
all  the  children  except  Annunciata.  And  slowly 
the  violent  episode  of  the  abortive  divorce  trial 
lost  its  salience  in  the  general  mind  and  passed  into 
the  social  history  of  the  district,  and  was  discussed 
quite  quietly  at  tea  tables  as  an  affair  not  more 
astounding  and  scandalous  than  sundry  other  affairs. 
And  old  ties  of  friendship  and  acquaintance  were 
resumed.  And  everybody  tried  to  behave  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.  And  nearly  everybody 
ultimately  succeeded  in  behaving  as  though  nothing 
had  happened.  Charles  Fearns  certainly  succeeded. 
Rumour  had  his  name  again  between  her  scandalous 
teeth  ere  a  year  had  elapsed.  But  he  was  very 
discreet,  and  very  attentive  to  his  wife;  and  he 
never  began  to  vary  from  the  path  of  rectitude  till 
he  had  reached  London,  where  all  things  are  hid. 

Annunciata  was  obviously  born  to  be  a  nurse. 
She  had  the  intense  seriousness,  and  the  strictness, 
and  the  inward  fire,  that  mark  a  woman  for  a  voca- 
tion. The  solution  of  her  particular  problem  leapt  to 
the  eye.  She  accepted  it  gladly,  earnestly.  She  never 
saw  her  father  again.  She  would  not.  Nor  did  her 
mother  urge  her  to  do  so.  It  was  part  of  the  family 
pact  that  she  and  her  father  should  not  meet.  She 
frequently  enquired  about  him  from  her  mother;  but 
Charles  Fearns  never  mentioned  her  name. 


THE  SOLUTION  395 

When  Lawrence  Ridware  had  telephoned  to  Pire- 
hill  for  a  nurse,  he  had  been  informed  that  he  could 
have  one  and  that  Nurse  Fearns  would  be  sent. 

And  now  they  sat  together  in  his  parlour  in  the 
blackening  dusk  of  a  Five  Towns  autumn.  With 
her  pale,  tight-bound  hair,  and  her  clear  blue  costume 
and  spotless  cap,  and  large  apron  with  the  chatelaine 
jingling  against  its  whiteness,  she  looked  a  comely 
and  desirable  creature,  wistful,  fragile,  and  yet  very 
stern.  Something  stirred  in  Lawrence,  an  impulse 
that  had  not  stirred  in  him  for  years.  His  mind 
went  back  —  to  what  should  it  go  back  but  to  the 
sudden  interruption  of  the  trial  and  to  the  feel  of 
her  thin  body  in  his  arms.^  He  had  held  her  in  his 
arms.  And  he  could  recall  the  sensation  precisely. 
Yes,  something  stirred  in  him.  He  remembered 
his  divorced  wife's  vicious:  "Supposing  I  were  to  ask 
you  about  Annunciata  Fearns.'"'  How  amazing 
was  the  penetration  of  women!  He  was  nearly 
twenty  years  older  than  Annunciata.  And  time 
was  marking  him.  He  did  not  belie  his  age  as  he 
sat  there,  nervously  stroking  his  fine  chin  with  his 
heavy  reddish  hand.  But  he  recognized  candidly 
that  for  years  past  Annunciata  had  had  a  strange 
attraction  for  him.  And  his  wife,  with  devilish 
insight,  had  discovered  that!  He  saw  Annunciata 
in  the  roseate  glow  of  an  unmistakable  sentiment. 
He  vaguely  wanted    her.     And    for    a  moment    a 


396  WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

notion  visited  him  of  trying  to  win  her,  thus  round- 
ing off  his  life  and  hers,  despite  the  difference  in  their 
ages.  But  the  notion  vanished  whence  it  came, 
even  as  he  gazed  at  her  placid  features.  Why 
trouble  her  career,  why  trouble  what  was  left  of 
his,  letting  loose  again  that  force,  terrific  and  rav- 
aging, which  through  the  agency  of  others  had  al- 
ready embittered  and  poisoned  their  existence? 
Why  awaken  desire,  which  destroys  calm  —  the 
most  precious  thing  on  earth,  as  it  seemed  to  him? 
Why  not  be  content  with  the  fact  that  Annunciata 
lived,  a  beautiful  activity  on  which  all  that  was  most 
pure  in  his  soul  might  dwell? 

He  was  sick  of  love.  And  she,  he  reflected,  might 
have  the  good  fortune  never  to  know  it.  And  so 
he  allowed  the  notion  of  wooing  her  to  vanish  whence 
it  came.     And  for  him  and  for  her  it  was  best. 

"You  prefer  Pirehill  to  a  hospital  in  London?" 
he  questioned. 

"Yes,  much,"  she  replied.  "You  see  mother  can 
come  to  see  me,  and  it's  so  easy  for  me  to  go  and  see 
her."  Annunciata's  eyes  shone  at  the  thought  of 
her  mother.  "Not  to  mention  the  children,"  she 
said.  Naturally  she  did  not  add  that  her  visits 
to  the  house  at  Knype  were  carefully  timed  in  order 
that  she  might  avoid  her  father. 


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